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16 — *7?.?0-2 01»0 



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"ENGAGED." 

IN THREE ACTS. 



^VV. S. GI L 13 B n T. 



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I^rsf produced at the Haymarket Theatre, Wednesdaj/y 
Srd October, 1877, under the management of Mr. 
J. S. Clarke. 



gramtttiH ^txnaxxit. 



Che;/iot Hill MR. GEORGE HONEY. 

■ (A young man of propertg). 

-BEr^^vAWNEY MR. HAROLD KYRLE. 

* {Uis friend). 

Mr] Symperson MR. HOWE. 

An bus Macalistbr MR. DEWAR. 

' {A Lowland peasant lad). 

Major McGiLLicuDBY MR. AVEATHERSBY. 

BeiLinda Treherne ... MISS MARION" TERRY 

MinInie MISS LUCY BUCKSTONE. 

( {Sgm2)erson's daughter). 

.Macfablane MISS EMILY THORNE. 

A Lowland widow). 

y ', her daughter ... MISS JULIA STEWART. 
'' ^A Lowland lassie). 

RKER ... MISS JULIA ROSELLE. 

' {Minnie's maid). 



-A-' jT I. — Garden of a cottage, near Gretna. 

{On the border, between England and Scotland.) 

■A |CTS II. and III. — Drawing-room in Symporson's house in 
\ London. 

{Three months intervalis supposed to elapse between 

Acts 1 and 2.) 
{Three days' interval is supposed to elapsi between 

Acts 2 arid 3). 



:cupied in representation, Two hours and a quarter. 



NOTE. 



r 

It is absolutely essential to the success of tliis piece thr' 
it should bo played Mith the most perfect tarucstuess a\^'^ 
gravity throughout. There should bo no exaggcratij^ 
in costume, n^akc-up, or demeanour ; and the charact 
one and all, should appear to believe, throughout, i 
perfect sincerity of their v/ords and actions. 




W. S. GILBERT. 



24, The Boltonsj 

12//^. October, 1877. 



{ ACT I. 

Scene,' Garden of a humble hut picturesque cottage, near 

(rrctna, on the border between England and Scotland. 

The cottage (r ii) is covered with creepers, and the 

garden is prettily filled inth flowers. The door faces 

\ audience. A wooden bridge leads of l u e. The 

\ whole scene is suggestive of rustic prospe? ity and con- 

^ tent. JMaggie Macfaklane, a pretty country girl, 

is discovered sjjiniiing at a wheel (l h), and singing 

as she sjnns. A rustic stool r. Angus Macalisteu, 

a good looking peasant lad, appears on at back, crosses 

to R, and creeps snftly down to Maggie as she sings 

and sjiins, and places his hands over her eyes. 

Ang. (r) Wha is it ? 

]\f AG. (l) Oh Angus, ye friglitened me sae ! {B'e re- 
leasl^ /^(?;-). And see there — the flax is a' knotted and 
script-ed— and I'll do naething wi' it ! 

j^NG. Meg ! My Meg ! My ain bonnie Meg ! 

]\!ag. Angus, why, lad, what's wrang wi' ee ? Thoj 
hast tear drops in thy bonnie blue ee'n. 

>NG. Diuna heed them, Meg. It comes fra glowerin' 
at fhy bright beauty. Speerin' at thee is like glowerin' 
at he noon-day sun ! 

]\ AG. Angus, thour't talking fulishly. I'm but a 
poof brown hill-side lassie. I dinna like to hear sic 
things from a straight honest lad like thee. Its the way 
the dandy town-folk speak to me, and it does na come 
riglttly from the lips of a simple man. 

Ang. Forgive me, Meg, for I spake honestly to 
ye. Angus Macalister is not the man to deal in 
sque-iming compliments. Meg, I love thee dearly, as 
thoii well knowest. I'm but a poor lad, and I've little 
but twa braw arms and a straight hairt to live by, but 
I'v^ saved a wee bit siller — I've a braw housie and a 
scr?ppie of gude garden-land — and its a' for thee, lassie, 
if ftiou'U gie me thy true and tender little hairt ! 



\ 



Mag. Angus, I'll be fair and straight wi' ee. Tl 
askest me for my hairt. Why, Angus, thou'rt t£.^ll> ^ 
fair, and brave. Thou'.st a gude, honest face, ^"^t 
gude, honest hairt, which is mair precious than c*^ ^ 
gold on earth ! No man has a word to say against A. ^i 
Macalister — no, nor any woman neither. Thou 1 ^ 
strong arras to work wi', and a strong hairt to help t^ 
work. And wha am I that I should say that a,' thy 
bltsssings are not enough for me ^ If thou, gude, bra \ 
honest man, will be troubled wi' sic a poor little, hu ' 
mousie as Maggie Macfarlane, why, she'll just be 
proudest and happiest lassie in a' Dumfries. 

Ang. My ain darling ! {They embrace.) 

Enter Mrs. Macfarlane from cottage' door (r) f 

Mrs Mac. Why, Angus — Maggie, what's a' thit '^ • 

Akg. Mistress Macfirrlane, dinna be fasht wi' ii^ 
dinna think worse o' me than I deserve. I've loved yy 
lass honestly these fifteen years, but I never plucked! 
the hairt to tell her so until now ; and when she answei | 
fairly, it was not in human nature to do aught else I '• 
hold her to my hairt and place one kiss on her bo* ' 
cheek. A. 

Mrs. Mac. (r) Angus, say nae mair.My hairt is sai v" 
losing my only bairn ; but I'm nae fasht wi'ee. Thoii r 
a gude lad, and it's been the hope of my widowed am , 
heart to see you twain one. Thou'lt treat her kindl^^ / 
I ken that week Thou'rt a prosperous, kirk-going mS' 
and my Mag should be a happy lass indeed. Bless thl ' 
Angus ; bless thee ! \ 

Ang. (c) {icipmg Ids eyes.) Dinna heed the water \ 
my 'ee — it will come when I'm ower glad. Tes, I'n; 
fairly prosperous man. What wi' farmin' a bit 1 
and gillieing odd times, and a bit o' poachin' now 
again ; and what wi' my illicit whusky stiJl — and thr. 
in' trains off the line, that the poor distracted passeng, 
may come to my cot, I've mair ways than one of mak 
an honest living — and I'll work them a' nicht and 
for my bonnie Meg ! 



Mrs. Mac. {seated r). D'ye ken, Angus, I somctinics 
think that thou'rt losing some o' thine auld skill at up- 
setting railway trains. Thou hast not done sic a thing 
these sa-i weeks, and the cottage stands sairly in need 
of sic chance custom as the for delayed passengers may 
bring. 

Mag. Nay, mither, thou wiangest him. Even noo, 
this very day, has he not placed twa .bonnie hraw 
sleepers across the up-line, ready for the express from 
Glaisgie, which is due in twa minutes or so (crosses to l), 

Mrs. Mac. Gude lad. Gude thoughfu' lad ! But 
I hope the unfortunate passengers viill na' be much hurt, 
puir unconscious bodies ! 

Ang. (c) Fear nought, mither. Lang experience has 
taught me to do my work deftly. The train will run 
off the line, and the traffic will just be blocked for half- 
a-day, but I'll warrant ye that, wi' a' this, nae mon, 
woman, or child amang them will get sae much as a 
bruised head or a broken nose. 

Mag. My ain tender-hearted Angus ! He wadna 
hurt sae much as a blatherin' buzzin' bluebottle flee ! 
{Ixailwaij whistle heard, l h). 

Ang. I^ao, Meg, not if takin' care and thought could 
help the poor dumb thing ! [wiping his eyes.) There, 
see, lass {looldng off), the train's at a standstill, and 
there's nae harm done. I'll just go and tell the puir 
d/straught passengers that they may rest them here, in 
thy cot, gin they will, till the line is cleared again. 
Mither, get thy rooms ready, and put brose i' the pot, 
for mebbe they'll be hungry, poor souls. Farewell, Meg ; 
I'll be back ere lang, and if 1 don't bring 'ee a full half 
dozen o' well-paying passengers, thou may'st just wed 
the red -headed exciseman ! 

\Exit Angus l over bridge. 

Mag. Oh, mither, mither, I'm ower happy ! I've 
nae deserved sic a good fortune as to be the wife o' yon 
brave and honest lad ! 

Mrs. Mac. Meg, thine auld mither's hairt is sair at 
the thought o' losin' ye, for hitherto she's just been a' 



I 



the world to 'ee ; but now thou'lfc cleave to thine Angus, 
and thou'lt learn to love him better than thy poor auld 
mitbcr ! But it mun be — it mun be ! 

Mag. Nay, mither, say not that. A gude girl loves 
her husband wi' one love and her mither wi* anither. 
They are not alike, but neither is greater nor less tban 
the ither, and they dwell together in peace and unity. 
That is how a gude girl loves. 

Mrs. Mac And thou art a gude girl, Meg ? 

Mag. I am a varra gude girl indeed, mither — a 
varra, varra gude girl ! 

Mrs. Mac. I'm richt sure o' that. Well, the puir 
belated passengers will be here directly, and it is our 
duty to provide for then: sic puir hospitality as our 
humble roof will afford. It shall never be said o' Janie 
Macfarlaue that she ever turned the weary traveller 
fainting from her door. 

Mag. My ain gentle-hearted mither ! 

[^Exeunt together into cottage n. 

Enter Angus tvith I^elvawney and Miss Trehei(Ine 
over bridge, l. She is in travelling costume, oind 
both are much agitated and alarmed. { 

Ang. {down r) Step in, sir— step in, and sit ye dolun 
fur a wee. I'll just send Mistress Macfarlane to jq. 
She's a gude auld bodie, and v/ill see to your comfoirts 
as if she was your ain mither. ) 

Bel. Thank you, my worthy lad, for your kindnjcss 
at this trying moment. I assure you we shall not for- 
get it. (Miss T. sits L.) ' 

Ang. Ah, sir, wadna any mon do as muckle ? ' A 
dry shelter, a bannock and a pan o' parritch is a' we 
can offer ye, but sic as it is ye're bairtily welcome. 

Bel. (l) It is well — we thank you. 

Ang. [Foot on stool r). For wha wadna help the un- 
fortunate ? 

Bel. (occMjs/ec^mY// MissTreherne), (lc). Exactly — 
every one would. 

Ang. Or feed the hungry ? 



6 

Bel. No doubt. 

Ang. It just brings the tear drop to my ee' to think — 

Bel, {Leading him off). My friend, we would bo 
alone, this maiden and I. Farewell ! [Exit Angus, 
11, into cottage). Belinda— my own — my lite ! Compose 
yourself. It was in truth a weird and gruesome accident. 
The line is blocked — your parasol is broken, and your 
butterscotch trampled in the dust, but no serious harm ii 
done. Come, be cheerful. We are safe — quite safe. 

Miss T. Safe ! Ah, Belvawnoy, my own own, Bel- 
vawney — there is, I fear, no safety for us so long as we 
are liable to be overtaken by that fearful Major, to 
whom I was to have been married this morning ! 

Bel. Major McGillicuddy ? I confess I do not feel 
comfortable when I think of Major McGillicuddy. 

Miss T. You know his barbaric nature, and how 
madly jealous he is. If he should find that I have 
eloped with you, he will most surely shoot us both ! 

Bel. It is an uneasy prospect (crosses to r). {Sud- 
denly.) Belinda, do you love me ? 

Miss T. {advancing to him). With an impetuous 
passion that I shall carry with me to the tomb ! 

Bel. Then be mine to-morrow ! We are not far from 
Gretna, and the thing can be done without delay. Once 
married, the arm of the law will protect us from this 
fearful man, and we can defy him to do his worst. 

Miss T. Belvawney, all this is quite true. I love you 
madly, passionately ; I care to live but in your heart, I 
breathe but for your love ; yet, before I actually consent 
to take the irrevocable step that will place me on the 
pinnacle of my fondest hopes, you must give me some 
definite idea of your pecuniary position. I am not 
mercenary, heaven knows ; but business is business, and 
I confess I should like a little definite information about 
the setclements. 

Bel. (sits r) I often think that it is deeply to be de- 
plored that these grovelling questions of money should 
alloy the tenderest and most hallowed sentiments that 
inspire our imperfect natures. 



() 

Miss T. It is unfortunate, no doubt, but at tbe same 
time it is absolutely necessary. 

Bel. (rises) Belinda, I will be frank with you. My 
income is £1,000 a year, which I hold on certain con- 
ditions. You know my friend Cheviot Hill, who is 
travelling to London in the same train with us, but in 
the third class ? 

Miss T. (l) I believe I know the man you mean. 

B EL. (c) Cheviot, who is a young man of large property, 
but extremely close-fisted, is cursed with a strangely 
amatory disposition, as you will admit when I tell you 
that he has contracted a habit of proposing marriage, as 
a matter of course, to every woman he meets. His 
haughty father (who comes of a very old family— the 
Cheviot Hills had settled in this part of tha world 
centuries before the conquest) is compelled by his health 
to reside in Madeira. Knowing that I exercise an all 
but su[)ernatural influence over his son, and fearing that 
his affectionate disposition would lead him to contract 
an undesirable marriage, the old gentleman allov\-s me 
£1,000 a year so long as Cheviot shall live single, but at 
his death or marriage the money goes over to Cheviot's 
uncle Symperson, who is now travelling to town with 
him. 

Miss T. Then so long as your influence over hira 
lasts, so long only will you retain your income ? 

B EL. {crosses to l) That is, I am sorry to say, Ithe 
state of the case. J 

Miss T. (c) (After a pause). Belvawney, I love you 
with an imperishable ardour which mocks the power of 
words. If I were to begin to tell you now of the force 
of my indomitable passion for you, the tomb would close 
over me before I could exhaust the entrancing subject. 
But, as I said before, business is business, and unless I 
can see some distinct probability that your income will 
be permanent, I shall have no alternative but to weep 
my heart out in all the anguish of maiden solitude — 
uncared for, unloved, and alone ! 

^Ent Miss Treherne (r) itito cottage — quickly. 



Bel. (l) There goes a noble-hearted girl, indeed ! Oh, 
for the gift of Cheviot's airy badinage — oh, f.jr his skill 
in weaving a net about the hearts of women ! If I 
could but induce her to marry me at once before the 
dreadful Major learns our flight ! Why not ? We are 
in Scotland. Methinks I've heard two loving hearts can 
wed, in this strange country, by merely making declara- 
tion . to that effect. I will think out some cunning 
scheme to lure her into marriage unawares. 

Enter Maggie (ii) from cottage. 

Mag. (r) Will j'e walk in and rest a wee, Maister 
Belvawney. There's a room ready fur yo, kind sir, and 
ye're heartily welcome to it. 

Bel. (l) It is well. (Maggih going). Stop ! Come 
hither, maiden. 

Mag. Oh, sir ! you do not mean any harm towards 
a poor, innocent, unprotected cottage lassie ? 

Bel. Harm ! No ; of couise, I don't. What do 
you mean ? 

Mag. (b c) I'm but a poor, humble mountain girl ; 
but let me tell you, sir, that my character's just as dear to 
me as the richest and proudest lady's in the land. Be- 
fore I consent to approach ye, swear to me that you mean 
me no harm. 

Bel. Harm ? Of course I don't. Don't be a little 
fool ! Come here. 

Mag. There is something in bis manner that reassures 
me. It is not that of the airy trifler with innocent 
hairts. [AIohcI) — What wad ye wi' poor, harmless 
Maggie Macfarlane, gude sir ? {Advancing to him.) 

Bel. Can you tell me what constitutes a Scotch mar- 
riage ? 

Mag. Oh, sir, it's nae use asking me that ; for my 
heart is not my ain to give. I'm betrothed to the best 
and noblest lad in a' the bonnie borderland. Oh, sir, I 
cauna be your bride ! 

Bel. My girl, you mistake. I do not want you for 



8 

my bride. Can't you answer a simple question ? What 
constitutes a Scotch marriage ? 

Mag. Ye've just to say before twa witnesses, " Maggie 
^facfarlane is my wife ; " and I've just to sa,y, " Maister 
Belvawney is my husband," and nae mon can set us 
asunder. But, sir, I canna be your bride ; for I'm 
bethrothed to the best and noblest 

Bel. I congratulate you. You can go. 

Mag. Yes, sir. lUxit Maggie into cottage (r). 

Bel, It is a simple process ; simple, but yet how 
beautiful ! One thing is certain — Cheviot may marry 
any day, despite my precautions, and then I shall be 
penniless. He may die, and equally I shall be penniless. 
Belinda has £500 a year — it is not much, but it would, 
at least, save me from starvation. 

[_Uxit Belvawney (r 2 e). 

Enter Symperson and Cheviot Hill over bridge (lh). 

T/iey both show signs oj damage — their hats are 

beaten in and their clothes disordered through the 
accident. 

Symp. (r) Well — here wo are at last — 

Ch. (l) Yes, Here we are at last, and a pretty state 
I'm in to I e sure. 

Symp. My dear nephew, you would travel third- 
class, and this is the consequence. After all, there's not 
much harm done. 

Ch. Not much harm ? What d'ye call that ? {/show- 
ing his hat) ten and ninepence at one operation ! My gloves 
split — one and four ! My cost ruined — eighteen and 
six ! It's a coarse and brutal nature that recognizes no 
harm that don't involve loss of blood. I'm reduced by 
this accident from a thinking, feeling, reflecting human- 
being to a moral pulp — a mash — a poultice. Damme, 
sir, thats' what I am ! I'm a poultice ! 

Sym. Cheviot, my dear boy, at the moment of the 
accident you were speaking to me on a very interesting 
subject. 



Ch. "Was I ? I forget what it was. The accident 
has knocked it clean out of my head. 

Sym. You were saying that you were a man of good 
position and fortune ; that you derived £2000 a year 
from your bank ; that you thought it was time you 
settled. You then reminded mo that I should come into 
Belvawney's £1000 a year on your marriage, and I'm not 
sure, but I rather think you mentioned, casually, that 
my daughter Minnie is an Angel of Light. 

Cir. True, and just then we went off the line. To 
resume — Uncle Symperson, your daughter Minnie is an 
Angel of Light, a perfect being, as innocent as a new- 
laid egg. 

SvM. Minnie is, indeed, all that you have described 
her. 

Ch. Uncle, I'm a man of few words. I feel and I 
speak. I love that girl, madly, passionately, irresistibly. 
She is my whole life, my whole aoul and body, my Past, 
my Present, and my To Come. I have thought for none 
but her ; she fills my mind, sleeping and waking ; she is 
the essence of every hope — the tree upon which the fruit 
of my heart is growing — my own To Come ! 

Sym. [icho has sank overpowered on to stool, r h, during 
this speech). Cheviot, my dear boy, excuse a father's 
tear. I won't beat about the bush. You have antici- 
pated my devoutest wish. Cheviot, my dear boy, take 
her, she is yours ! 

Ch. I have often heard of rapture, but I never knew 
what it was till now. Uncle Symperson, bearing in 
mind the fact that your income will date from the day 
of the wedding, when may this be ? 

8ym. {rises) My boy, the sooner the better ! Delicacy 
would prompt me to give Belvawney a reasonable notice 
of the impending loss of his income, but should I, for 
such a mere selfish reason as that, rob my child of one 
hour of the happiness that you are about to confer upon 
her P No ! Duty to my child is paramount ! 

Ch. (l) On one condition, however, I must insist. This 
must be kept from Belvawney's knowledge. You know 



10 

the strange, mysterious influence that his dreadful eyes 
exercises over me. 

Sym. I have remarked it with astonishment. 
Cn. They are much inflamed just now, and he has 
to wear green spectacles. Vvhilo this lasts I am a fr^e 
agent, hut under treatment they may recover. In that 
case, if hn knew that I contemplated matrimony, he 
would use them to prevent my doing eo — and I cannot 
resist them — I cannot resist them ! Therefore, I say, 
until I am safely and securely tied up, Belvawney must 
know nothing about it. 

Sym. Trust me, Cheviot, he shall know nothing about 
it from me. (Aside) A thousand a year ! I have endea- 
voured, but in vain, to woo Fortune for fifty-six years, but 
she smiles upon me at last ! — she smiles upon me at 
last I \_Exit Symperson into eotfar/e r h. 

Ch. At length my hopes are to be crowned ! Oh, 
my OAvii — my own — the hope of my heart-— my love — 
my life ! 
iJnter Belvawney (r 2 e), ivho lias overheard these 
words. 
Bel. Cheviot ! Whom are you apostrophising in 
those terms ? You've been at it again, I see ! 

Ch. (c) Belvawney, that apostrophe was private ; I 
decline to admit you to my confideno. 

Bel. Cheviot, what is the reason of this strange tone 
of defiance ? A week ago I had but to express a wish, 
to have it obeyed as a matter of course. 

Ch. Belvawney, it may not be denied that there was 
a time when, owing to the remarkable influence exer- 
cised over me by your extraordinary eyes, you could do 
with me as you would. It would be affectation to deny 
it, your eyes withered my will. They paralyzed my 
volition. They were strange and lurid eyes, and I 
bowed to ihem. Those eyes wei e my Fate — my Destiny — 
my unerring Must — my inevitable Shall. That time has 
gone — for ever ! 

Bel, {sits, r) Alas for the days that are past and the 
good that came and went with them ! 



Jl 

Ch. Weep for tliem if you will. I caunot weep 
■with you, for I loved them not. But, as you say, 
they are past. The light that lit up those eyes is 
extinct — their fire has died out — (heir soul has floi. 
They are no longer eyes, they are poached eggs. I 
have not yet sunk so low as to be the slave of two 
poached e;(gs 

Bel, {ri^es) Have mercy. If any girl has succeeded ia 
enslaving you — and I know how easily you are enslaved — 
dismiss her from your thoughts ; have no more to say to 
her ; and I will — yes, I will bless you with my latest 
breath ! 

Ch. Whether a blessing conferred with one's latest 
breath is a superior article to one conferred in robust 
health we need not stop to enquire. I decline, as I said 
before, to admit you to ray confidence on any terms 
whatever. [Crosses to k). Begone ! 

\_Fj'it Bei>vawney (2 E l). 

Ch. Dismiss from my thoughts the only womau I 
ever loved ! Have no more to say to the tree upon which 
the fruit of my heart is growing ! No, Belvawney, I 
cannot cut off my tree as it it were gas or water. I do 
not treat women like that. Some men do, but I don't. 
I am not that sort of man. I respect women ; I love 
women. They arc good ; they are pure ; they are beau- 
tiful ; at least, many of them are. [Enter Maggie from 
cottage (r) he is much fascinated) This one, for example, 
is very beautiful indeed ! 

Mag. If ye'll just walk in sir, ye'U find a bannock 
and a pan o' parritch waitin' for ye ou the table. 

Ch. [fascinated). This is one of the loveliest women I 
ever met in the whole course of my life ! 

Mag. [amle). What's he glowerin* at? [Aloui) — • 
Oh sir, ye mean no harm to the poor Lowland lassie ? 
[Advancing to c.) 

Ch. Pardon me ; it's very foolish. I can't account 
for it — but I am arrested, fascinated. 

Mag. Oh gude sir, what's fascinated ye ? 

Ch. I don't know ; there is something about you 



12 

that exercises a most remarkable influence over me ; it 
seems to weave a kind of enchantment around me. I 
can't think what it is. You are a good girl, I am sure. 
None but a good girl could so powerfully aS'ect me. You 
aro a good girl, are you not ? 

Mag.(c) I am a varra gude girl indeed, sir, 

Ch. I was quite sure of it. {Geis his arm round her 
icaist.) 

Mag, I am a much better girl than nineteen out of 
twenty in these pairts. And they are all gude girls too. 

Ch, (l c) My darling ! {Kisses her.) 

Mag. Oh, kind sir, what's that for ? 

Ch. It is your reward for being a good girl. 

Mag. Oh sir, I did na look for sic a recompense ; 
you are varra varra kind to poor little Maggie 
Macfarlane. 

Ch. I cannot think what it is about you that fas- 
cinates me so remarkably. 

Mag. Maybe it's my beaut3^ 

Ch. Maybe it is. It is quite possible that it may 
be, as you say, your beauty, 

Mag. I am remarkably pretty, and I've a varra neat 
figure. 

Ch. There is a natural modesty in this guileless 
appreciation of your own perfection that is, to me, 
infinitely more charming than the affected ignorance of 
an artificial town-bred beauty. 

Mag. Oh sir, can I close my e'en to the picture that 
my looking-glass holds up to me twenty times a day ? 
We see the rose on the tree, and we say that it is fair ; 
we see the silver moon sailing in the braw blue heavens, 
and we say that she is bright; we see the brawling 
stream purling over the smooth stanes i' the burn, and 
we say that it is beautiful ; and shall we close our e'en 
to the fairest of nature's works — a pure and beautiful 
woman ? Why sir, it wad just be base ingratitude ! No, 
its best to tell the truth about a' things : I am a varra, 
varra, beautiful girl ! 

Ch. Maggie Macfarlane, I'm a plain, blunt, straight- 



13 

forward, man, and I come quickly to the point. I see 
more to love in you than I ever saw in any woman in 
all my life before. I have a large income, which I do 
not spend recklessly. I love you passionately ; you are 
the essence of every hope ; you are the tree upon which 
the fruit of my heart is growing— my Past, my Present, 
my Future — you are my own To Come. Tell me, will 
you be mine — will you join your life with mine ? 

{Enter Angus, r, icho listens.) 

Mag. Ah kind sir, I'm sairly grieved to wound sae 
true and tender a love as yours, but ye're ower late, my 
love is nae my ain to give ye, its given ower to the best 
and bravest lad in a' the bonnie Borderland ! 

Ch. Give me his address that I may go and curse him ! 

Mag. {hiecls to Hill, l c) Ah ye must not curse him 
— Oh spare him, spare him, for he is good and brave, 
and he loves me, oh sae dearly, and I love him, oh sae 
dearly too . Oh sir, kind sir, have mercy on him and 
do not — do not curse him, or I shall die ! ( Throwing 
herself at his feet.) 

Ch. Will you, or will you not, oblige me by telling 
me where he is, that I may at once go and curse him ? 

Ang. {coming fonoard). He is here, sir, but dinna 
waste your curses on me. Maggie, my bairn {raising her), 
I heard the answer ye gave to this man, my true and 
gentle lassie ! Ye spake well and bravely, Meg — 
well and bravely ! Dinna heed the water in my 'ee — 
its a tear of joy and gratitude, Meg — a tear of joy and 
gratitude ! {Passes Maggie to r.) 

Ch. {touched). Poor fellow ! I will not curse him ! 
(Aloud.) Young man, I respect your honest emotion. I 
don't want to distress you, but I cannot help loving this 
mo-t charming girl. Come, is it reasonable to quarrel 
with a man because he's of the same way of thinking as 
yourself ? 

Ang. Nay, sir, Pm nae fasht, but it just seems to 
drive a' the bluid back into my hairt when I think that 
my Meg is loved by anither ! Oh, sir, she's a fair and 



l4 

winsome lassie, and I miclit as justly be angry wi* ye 
for loving the blue heavens ! She's just as far above us 
as they are ! ( Wiping his eyes and kissing her.) 

Ch. {loith decision). Pardon me, I cannot allow that. 

Ang. Eh ? 

Ch. I love that girl madly — passionately- and I 
cannot possibly allow you to do that— not before my 
eyes, I beg. You simply torture me. 

Mag. [to Ang.). Leave, oflF, dear, till the poor gentle- 
man's gone, and then ye can begin again, 

Ch. Angus, listen to me. You love this girl ? 

Ang. I love her, sir, a'most as weel as I love mysel'! 

Ch, Then reflect how you are standing in the way 
of her prosperity. I am a rich man. I have money, 
position, and education. I am a much more intellectual 
and generally agreeable companion for her than you can 
ever hope to be. I am full of anecdote, and all my 
anecdotes are in the bsst possible taste. I will tell you 
some of them, some of these days, and you can judge for 
yourself. Maggie, if she married me, would live iu a 
nice house in a good square. She would have wine — 
occasionally. She would be kept beautifully clean. Now, 
if you really love this girl almost as well as you love 
yourself, are you doing wisely dr kindly in standing in 
the way of her getting all these good things ? As to 
compensation— why, I've had heavy expenses of late — 
but if — yes, if thirty shillings 

Ang. {liotly). Sir, I'm puir in pocket, but I've a 
rich hairt. It is rich in a pure and overflowing love, 
and he that hath love hath all. You canna ken what 
true love is, or you wadna dare to insult a puir but honest 
lad by ofi'ering to buy his treasure for money. (Cheviot 
retires up.) 

Mag. (g) My ain true darling ! {They embrace.) 

Ch. Now, I'll not have it ! Understand me, I'll not 
have it. It's simple agony to me (Angus jjasses Maggie 
over L E h.) Angus, I respect your indignation, but you 
are too hasty. I do not offer to buy your treasure for 
money. You love her ; it will naturally cause you pain 



1^ 

to pnrt witli her, and I prescribe thirty shillings, not as a 
cure, but as a temporary solace. If thirty shillings is 
not enough, why, I don't mind making it two pounds. 

Ang. Nae, sir, its useless, and we ken it weel, do 
we not, my brave lassie ? Our hearts are one as our 
bodies will be some day ; and the man is na' born, and 
the gold is na' coined, that can set us twain asunder ! 

Mag. (r) Angus, dear, I'm varra proud o' sae staunch 
and true a love ; it's like your ain true self, an' I can 
say nae more for it than that. But dinna act wi'out 
prudence and forethought, dear. In these hard times 
twa pound is twa pound, and I'm nae sure that ye'ro 
acting richtly in refusing sae large a sum. I love you 
varra dearly — ye ken that right weel — an' if ye'll be 
troubled wi' sic a poor little mousie I'll mak' ye a true 
an' loving wife, but I doubt whether, wi' a' my love, I'll 
ever be worth as much to ye as twa pound. Dinna act 
in haste, dear ; tak time to think before ye refuse this 
kind gentleman's offer. 

Ano. (c) Oh, sir, is not this a rare modesty ? Could ye 
match it amang your toun-bred fine ladies ? I think not ! 
Meg, it shall be as you say. I'll tak' the siller, but it 
'11 be wi' a sair and broken hairt ! (Cheviot gives Angus 
money) . Fare thee weel, my love— my childhood's — 
boyhood's — manhood's love ! Ye're ganging f ra my hairt 
to anither, who'll gie thee mair o' the gude things o' 
this world than I could ever gie 'ee, except love, an' o* 
that my hairt is full indeed ! But its a' for the best; ye'll 
be happier wi' him — and twa pound is twa pound. Meg, 
mak him a gude wife, be true to him, and love him as 
you loved mo. Oh, JMeg, my poor bruised hairt is well 
nigh like to break ! [ Exit into cottage r in great agony. 

Mag. [looking widfully after ]dm). Puir laddie, puir 
laddie ! Oh, I did na' ken till noo how weel he loved me ! 
• Cii. Maggie, I'm almost sorry I — poor lad, poor 
fell')W ! He has a generous heart. I am glad I did not 
curse him. (Aside.) This is weakness ! (Aloud) Maggie 
my own, ever and for always my own, we will be very 
happy, will wo not ? 



1(5 

Mag. Oh, sir, I dinna ken, but in truth I hope so. 
Ob, sir, my happiness is in your hands noo ; be kind to 
the poor cottage lassie wbo loves ye sae weel ; My hairt 
is a' your ain, and if ye forsake me my lot will be a sair 
one indeed ! [Exit, weeping, into cottage. 

Ch. Poor little Lowland lassie ! That's my idea of 
a wife. No ridiculous extravagance ; no expensive tastes. 
Knows how to dress like a lady on £5 a year ; ah, and 
does it too ! No pretence tbere of being blind to her 
own beauties; she knows that she is beautiful, and 
scorns to lie about it. Tn that respect she resembles 
Symperson's dear daughter Minnie. My darling Minnie ; 
(loolis at miniature, sits l). My own darling Minnie. 
Minnie is fair, Maggie is dark. Maggie loves me ! That 
excellent and perfect country creature loves me ! She is 
to be the light of my life, my own to come ! Tn some 
respects she is even prettier than Minnie — my darling 
Minnie, Symperson's dear daughter, the tree upon which 
the fruit of my heart is growmg ; my Past, my Present 
and my Future, my own To Come ! But this tendency 
to reverie is growing on me ; I must shake it off. {Rises, 
crosses to r.) {E)iter Miss Trehekne at hack from rh.) 
Heaven and earth, what a singularly lovely girl ! 

Miss T. (l c) a stranger ! Pardon me, I will with- 
draw ! — \_Going. 

Ch. a stranger indeed, in one sense, inasmuch as he 
never had the happiness of meeting you before, but, iu 
that he has a heart that can sympathise with another's 
misfortune, he trusts he may claim to be regarded almost 
as a friend. 

Miss T. May I ask, sir, to what misfortunes you 
allude ? 

Cii. (e) I — a — do not know their precise nature, but 
that perception would indeed be dull, and that heart would 
be indeed flinty, that did not at once perceive that you 
arc very very unhappy, Accept, madam, my deepest 
and most respectful sympathy. 

Miss T. (i.) You have guessed rightly, sir. I am in- 
deed a most unhappy woman. 



17 

Ch. I am delighted to hear it — a — I mean I feel a 
pleasure, a melancholy and chastened pleasure, in reflect- 
ing that, if your distress is not of a pecuniary nature, it 
may perchance lay in my power to alleviate your sorrow. 

Miss T. (l) Impossible, sir, though I thank you for 
your respectful sympathy. 

Ch. (c) How many women would forego twenty years 
of their lives to be as beautiful as yourself, little dream- 
ing that extraordinary loveliness can co-exist with the 
most poignant anguish of mind ! But so, too often, we 
find it, do we not, dear lady ? 

Miss T. Sir ! this tone of address, from a c :)mplete 
stranger. 

Ch. (c) Nay, be not unreasonably severe upon an im- 
passionable and impulsive man, whose tongue is but the 
tco faithful herald of his heart. "VVe see the rose on the 
tree, and we say that it is fair, we see the bonnie brooks 
purling over the smooth stanes — I should say stones — in 
the burn, and we say that it is beautiful, and s'^.all we 
close our eyes to the fairest of nature's works, a pure and 
beautiful woman ? Why, it would be base ingratitude, 
indeed ! 

Miss T. T cannot deny that there is much truth in 
the sentiments you so beautifully express, but I am, un- 
happily, too well aware that, whatever advantages I 
may possess, personal beauty is not among their number. 
{Sits L.) 

Ch. How exquisitely modest is this chaste insensi- 
bility to your own singular loveliness ! How infinitely 
more winning than the bold-faced self appreciation of 
under-bred country girls ! 

Miss T, I am glad, sir, that you are pleased with 
my modesty. It has often been admired. 

Ch. Pleased ! I am more than pleased — that's a very 
weak word. I am enchanted. Madam, I am a man of 
quick impulse and energetic action. I feel and I speak 
— I cannot help it. Madam, be not surprised Avhen I 
tell you that I cannot resist the conviction that you are 
the light of my future life, the essence of every hope, 

c 



18 

the tree upon which the fruit of my heart is growing — 
my Past, my Present, my Future, my own own To Come ! 
(Miss T. rises.) Do not extinguish that light, do not 
disperse that essence, do not hlight that tree ! I am well 
off; I'm a bachelor; I'm thirty -two ; and I love you, 
madam, humbly, truly, trustfully, patiently. Paralyzed 
with admiration, I wait anxiously, and yet hopefully for 
your reply. 

Miss T. (l) Sir, that heart would indeed he cold that 
did not feel grateful for so much earnest, single-hearted 
devotion. I am deeply grieved to have to say one word 
to cause pain to one who expresses himself in such well- 
chosen terms of respectful esteem, but, alas, I have 
already yielded up my heart to one who, if I mistake 
not, is a dear personal friend of your own ? 

Ch. (c) Am I to understand that you are the young 
lady of property whom Belvawney hopes to marry ? 

Miss T. I am, indeed, that unhappy woman ! 

Ch. And is it possible that you love him ? 

Miss T. "With a rapture that thrills every fibre of my 
heart — with a devotion that enthralls my very soul ! 
But there's some difficulty about his settlements. 

Ch. a difficulty ! I should think there was. "Why, 
on my marrying, his entire income goes over to Symper- 
son ! I could reduce him to penury to-morrow. As it 
happens, I am engaged, I recollect, to Symperson's 
daughter ; and if Belvawney dares to interpose between 
you and me, by George, I'll do it ! {Crosses to l.) 

Miss T. Oh, spare him, sir ! {Falis on knees.) You 
say that you love me ? Then, for my sake, remain single 
for ever — it is all I ask, it is not much. Promise me 
that you will never, never marry, and we will both bless 
you with our latest breath ! (Rises.) 

Ch. (l) There seems to be a special importance at- 
tached to a blessing conferred with one's latest breath that 
I entirely fail to grasp. It seems to me to convey no 
definite advantage of any kind whatever. 

Miss T. Cruel, cruel man ! ( Weeping. Crosses to k.) 



19 

JEnter Belyawihey, in great alarm over hrigde l. down c. 

Bel, We are lost ! — we are lost ! 

Miss T, What do you mean ? 

Ch. Who has lost you ? 

Eel. Major McGillicuddy discovered your flight, and 
followed in the next train. The line is blocked through 
our accident, and his train has pulled up within a few 
yards of our own. He is now making his way to this 
very cottage ! What do you say to that ? 

Miss T. (r) I agree with you, we are lost ! 

Ch. (c) I disagree with you ; I should say you are 
found. 

Bel. (r c) This man is a reckless fire-cater ; he is 
jealous of me. H e will assuredly shoot us both if he 
sees us here together. I am no coward — but — I confess 
I am uneasy. (Turns up.) 

Miss T. Oh sir {crosses to c, brings C. Hill for- 
icard), you have a ready wit ; help us out of this diffi- 
culty, and we will both bless you — 

Bel. (l) With our latest breath ! 

Ch. That decides me. Madam, remain here with me. 
Belvawuey, withdraw. (Belvawney retires r). I will 
deal with this maniac alone. All I ask is, that if I find 
it necessary to make a statement that is not consistent with 
strict truth, you, madam, will unhesitatingly endorse it ? 

Miss T. I will stake my very existence on its 
veracity, whatever it may be. 

Ch. Good. He is at hand. Belvawney, go. 
(Belvawney retires to hack, r, and exit.) Now madam, 
repose upon my shoulders, place your arms around me 
so — is that comfortable ? 

Miss T. It is luxurious. 

Ch. Good. 

Miss T. You are sure it does not inconvenience you ? 

Ch. Not at all. Go back, I like it. Now we are 
ready for him. 

o2 



20 

Enter, l over bridge down k corner, McGillicuddy with 
ttvo friends dressed as for a wedding, with white favours, 
icho remain on bridge. McGillicuddy has pistols. 
All greatly excited. 

McG-. Where is the villain ? I'll swear he is con- 
cealed somewhere. Search every tree, every bush, every 
geranium. (Se^s Cheviot a/jf? Miss T.) Ha! they are 
here. Perjured woman ! I've found you at last. 

Miss T. {to Cheviot.) Save me ! (Belvawney 
appears at back, listening.) 

McGr. Who is the unsightly scoundrel with whom 
you have flown — the unpleasant looking scamp whom 
you have dared to prefer to me ? Uncurl yourself from 
around the plain villain at once, unless you would share 
his fate. (Maggie and Angus appear from cottage, u.) 

Miss T. Major, spare him ! {Crosses to r c.) 

Ch. (c) Now, sir, perhaps you will be so good as to 
explain who the deuce you are, and what you want with 
this lady ? 

McG. I don't know who you may be, but I'm 
McGillicuddy. I am betrothed to this lady ; we were 
to have been married this morning. I waited for her at 
the church from ten till four, then I began to get impatient. 

Ch. I really think you must be labouring under 
some delusion. 

McG. Delusion ? Ha ! ha ! ( Tivo friends on bridge 
produce large wedding cake.) Here's the cake ! 

Ch. Still I think there's a mistake somewhere. This 
lady is my wife. 

McG. What ! Belinda ! oh, Belinda ! Tell me 
that this unattractive man lies ; tell me that you are 
mine and only mine, now and for ever ! 

Miss T. I cannot say that. This gentleman is my 
husband ! 

(McGillicuddy falls sobbing on seat, r. Belvawney 
tears his hair in despair, Maggie sobs on Angus's 
shoulder, n.) 

Act Drop — ^uick. 



21 



ACT II. 

Scene. Double Drawing-room in Sympcrson'' s House, 
door R c, open at hack. Another door, 1st entrance, 
L. Chair and Stool r c. Piano r. Sofa l c. Indica- 
tions that a wedding is about to take place. A plate 
of farts and a bottle of tcine on table (r) against flat. 

Enter Minnie Symperson, in wedding dress, folloiced by 
Parkkr, her inaid, holding her train (r c d). 

MiN. (c) Take care, Parker — that's right. There ! 
How do I look ? 

Par. (r) Beautiful, miss ; quite beautiful. 

MiN. {earnestly.) Oh, Parker, am I really beautiful ? 
Really, really beautiful, you know ? 

Par, Oh, miss, there's no question about it. Oh, I 
do so hope you and Mr. Cheviot Hill will be happy. 

MiN. Oh, I'm sure we shall, Parker. He has often 
told me that I am the tree upon which the fruit of his 
heart is growing ; and one could'nt wish to be move than 
that. And he tells me that his greatest happiness is to 
see me happy. So it will be my duty — my duty, Parker 
— to devote my life, my whole life, to making myself as 
happy as I possibly can. 

Enter Symperson, dressed for wedding, door in flat (r) 

Sym. So, my little lamb is ready for the sacrifice. 
You can go, Parker. {Exit Parker, r d in r.) And 
I am to lose my pet at last ; my little dickey-bird is to 
be married to-day ! Well, well, it's for her good. I 
must try and bear it — I must try and bear it. 

MiN. And as my dear old papa comes into £1,000 
a year by it, I hope he won't allow it to distress him too 
much. He must try and bear up. He mustn't fret. 

Sym. My child, I will not deny that £1,000 a year 
is a consolation. {Sits r.) It's quite a fortune. I hardly 
know what I shall do with it. 



22 

Mix. I think, dear papa, you will spend a good deal 
of it on brandy, and a good deal more on billiards, and 
a good deal more on betting. 

S"SM. It may be so : I don't say it won't. We shall 
see, Minnie, we sball see. These simple pleasures would 
certainly tend to soothe your poor old father's declining 
years. And my darling has not done badly either, has 
she ? 

MiN. No, dear papa, only fancy! Cheviot has 
£2,000 a year, from Shares in the Koyal Indestructible 
Bank. 

Sym. (r) And don't spend £200. By-the-bye I'm 
sorry that my little bird has not contrived to induce 
him to settle anything on her ; that, I think, was remiss 
in my tom-tit. 

MiN. (r c, l-neels) Dear papa, Cheviot is the very soul 
of honour ; he's a fine, noble, manly, spirited fellow, but 
if he has a fault, it is that he is very, oh very, rery 
stingy. He would rather lose his heart's blood than 
part with a shilling unnecessarily. He's a noble fellow, 
but he's like that. 

Sym. Still I can't help feeling that if my robin had 
worked him judiciously • 

MiN. Papa, dear, Cheviot is an all but perfect 
character, the very type cf knightly chivalry ; but he 
has faults, and among other things he's one of the worst 
tempered men I ever met in all my little life. Poor, 
simple, little Minnie, thought the matter over very 
carefully in her silly childish way, and she came to the 
conclusion, in her foolish little noddle, that, on the whole, 
perhaps she could work it better after marriage, than 
before. 

Sym. (c) "Well, well, perhaps my wren is right. (Rises.) '■ 

Mm. (l) Don't laugh at my silly little thoughts, dear 
papa, when I say I'm sure she is. 

Sym. Minnie, my dear daughter, take a father's 
advice, the last he will ever be entitled to give you. If 
you would be truly happy in the married state, be sure 
you have your own way in everything. Brook no con- 



23 

tradictions. Never yield to outside pressure. Give in 
to no argument. Admit no appeal. However wrong 
you may be, maintain a firm, resolute and determined 
front. These were your angel mother's principles 
through life, and she was a happy woman indeed. I 
neglected those principles, and while she lived I was a 
miserable wretch. 

Mix. Papa dear, I have thought over the matter 
very carefully in my little baby-noddle, and I have come 
to the conclusion — don't laugh at me, dear papa — that it 
is my duty — my duty — to fall in with Cheviot's views 
in everything before marriage, and Cheviot's duty to fall 
into my views in everything after marriage. I think 
that is only fair, don't you ? 

Sym. Yes, I dare say it will come to that. 

MiN. Don't think me a very silly little goose when 
I say I'm sure it will. Quite, quite sure, dear papa. 
Quite. \_Exit Minnie, door l. 

Sym. (l) Dear child — dear child ! I sometimes fancy 
T can see traces of her angel mother's disposition in her. 
Yes, I think — I think she will be happy. But, poor 
Cheviot ! Oh, lor, poor Cheviot ! Dear me, it won't 
bear thinking of! 

Enter Miss Trehekne, (r d in flat) unobserved. She is 
dressed in stately and funeral blach. 

Miss T. (r c) Come liere, man-servant. Approach. 
I'm not going to bite you. Can I see the fair young 
thing they call Minnie Symperson ? 

Sym. Well really, I can hardly say. There's nothing 
wrong I hope ? 

Miss T. Nothing wrong ? Oh thoughtless frivolous 
lighthearted creature ! Oh reckless old butterfly ! 
Nothing wrong ? You've eyes in your head, a nose on 
your face, ears on each side of it, a brain of some sort in 
your skull, have'nt you, butler ? 

Sym. Undoubtedly, but I beg to observe I'm not 
the 

Miss T. Have you or have you not the gift of simple 



24 

apprehension? Can you or can you not draw con- 
clusions ? {Crosses to r.) Go to, go to, you offend me. 

Sym. {aside), c. There h something wrong, and its 
here {touching his forehead). I'll tell her you're here. 
Whom shall I say? 

Miss T. Say that one on whose devoted head the 
black sorrows of a long lifetime have fallen, even as a 
funeral pall, craves a minute's interview with a dear old 
friend. Do you think you can recollect that message, 
butler ? 

Sym, I'll try, but I beg, I heg to observe, I'm not 
the butler. {Aside). This is a most surprising young 
person ! [Exit l. 

Miss T. At last I'm in my darling's home, the homo 
of the bright blythe carolling thing that lit, as with a 
ray of heaven's sunlight, the murky gloom of my miser- 
able school- days. But what do I see? Tarts? Ginger 
wine ? There are rejoicings of some kind afoot. Alas, 
I am out of place here. AVhat have I in common with 
tarts ? Oh I am ill- attuned to scenes of revelry ! {Takes 
a tart and eats it.) ' 

Enter Minnie, 

MiN. (l c) Belinda ! {TJtey rash to each other^s arms.) 

Miss T. (k) Minnie ! My own long-lost lamb ! This is 
the first gleam of joy that has lighted my darksome course 
this many and many a day ! And in spite of the change 
that time and misery have brought upon me, you knew 
me at once ! {Eating the tart all this time.) 

MiN. Oh, I felt sure it was you, from the message. 

Miss T. How wondrously fair you have grown ! 
And this dress ! Why, it is surely a bridal dress ! Those 
tarts— that wine ! Surely this is not your wedding- 
day ? 

MiN. Yes, dear, I shall be married in half an hour. 

Miss T. Oh, strange chance ! Oh, unheard-of co- 
incidence ! Married ! And to whom ? 

Min. Oh, to the dearest love — My cousin, Mr. Cheviot 
Hill. Perhaps you know the name ? 



25 

Miss T. I have heard of the Cheviot Hills, some- 
where. Happy — strangely happy girl! You, at least, 
know your husband's name. {Siis on sofa l.) 

MiN. {Sits on 8ofa l.) Oh yes, it's on all his pocket- 
handkerchiefs. 

Miss T. It is much to know. I do not know mine. 

MiN. Have you forgotten it ? 

Miss T. No ; I never knew it. It is a dark mystery. 
It may not be unfathomed. It is buried in the fathom- 
less gulf of the Eternal Past. There let it lie. 

MiN. Oh, tell me all about it, dear. 

Miss T. It is a lurid tale, Triree months since I 
fled from a hated one, who was to have married me. 
He pursued me. I confided my distress to a young 
and wealthy stranger. Acting on his advice, I declared 
myself to be his wife ; he declared himself to be my hus- 
band. We were parted immediately afterwards, and we 
have never met since. But this took place in Scotland ; 
and by the law of that remarkable country we are man 
and wife, though I didn't know it at the time. 

MiN. {rises) What fun ! 

Miss T. (c) Fun ! Say, rather, horror — distraction — 
chaos! I am rent with conflicting doubts! Perhaps 
he was already married ; in that case, I am a bigamist. 
Maybe he is dead ; in that case, I am a widow. 
Maybe he is alive ; in that case, I am a wife. 
What am I ? Am I single ? Am I married ? Am I 
a widow ? Can I marry ? Have I married ? May I 
marry ? Who am I ? Where am I ? What am I ? — 
What is my name ? What is my condition in life ? If I 
am married, to whom am I married? If I am a widow, 
how came I to be a widow, and.)whose widow came I to 
be ? Why am I his widow ? What did he die of P Did 
he leave me anything ? if anything, how much, and is it 
saddled with conditions ? — Can I marry again without 
forfeiting it ? Have I a mother-in-law ? Have I a family 
of step- children, and if so, how many, and what are their 
ages, sexes, sizes, names and dispositions? These are 



26 

questions that rack me night and day, and until they are 
settled, peace and I are not on terms ! {Crosses to r.) 
MiN. Poor dear thing ! 

Miss T. (c) But enough of my selfish sorrows. 
(Goes up to table c, a7id takes a tart. Minnie is annoyed at 
this.) Tell me about the noble boy who is about to 
make you his. Has he any dross ? 

MiN. I don't know {secretly removes tarts fror)i c talle 
to table L, close to door). I never thought of asking — 
I'm such a goose. But papa knows. 

Miss T. Have those base and servile things called 
settlements been satisfactorily adjusted ? {Eating.) 

MiN. (l) I don't know. It never occurred to me to 
enquire. But papa can tell you. 

Miss T. The same artless little soul ! 

MiN. {standing so as to conceal tarts from Belinda). Yes, 
I am quite artless — quite, quite artless. But now that 
you are here you will stay and see me married. 

Miss T. I wouH willingly be a witness to my 
darling's joy, but this attire is, perhaps, scarcely in 
harmony with a scene of revelry. 

MiN. Well dear, you're not a cheerful object, and 
that's the truth. 

Miss T. And yet these charnel-house rags may 
serve to remind the thoughtless banquetters that they 
are but mortal. 

MiN. I don't think it will be necessary to do that, 
dear. Papa's sherry will make that quite clear to 
them. 

Miss T. Then I will hie me home, and array me in 
garments of less sombre hue. 

Min. I think it would be better, dear. Those are 
the very things for a funeral, but this is a wedding. 

Miss T. I see very little difference between them. 
But it shall be as you wish {crosses to l), though I have 
worn nothing but black since my miserable marriage. 
Farewell, dearest Minnie. There is breakfast, I sup- 
pose? 



27 

MiN. Yes, at dear Cheviot's house. 

Miss T. That is well. I shall return in time for it. 
Thank heaven I cau still eat ! ( Takes a tart from table 
at door l and exit, followed hy Minnie, ivho expresses 
annoyance at Belinda's greediness.) 

Enter Cheviot Hill (d in f ii). He is dressed as for a 
u'cdding. 

Cii. Here I am at last — quite flurried and hot after 
the usual row with the cabman, just when I wanted to 
be particularly calm and self-contained. I got the best of 
it though. Dear mo, this is a great day for me — a great 
day. "Where's Minnie, I wonder ? Arraying herself for the 
sacrifice, no doubt. Pouf ! {Sits r.) This is a very ner- 
vous occasion. I wonder if I'm taking a prudent step. 
Marriage is a very risky thing; it's like Chancery, once, 
in it you can't get out of it, and the costs are 
enormous. There you are — fixed. Fifty years 
hence, if we're both alive, there we shall both be — 
fixed. That's the devil of it. It's an unreasonably 
long time to be responsible for another person's ex- 
penses. I don't see the use of making it for as long as 
that. It seems greedy to take up half a century of another 
person's attention. Besides — one never knows — one 
might come across somebody else one liked better — that 
uncommonly nice girl I met in Scotland, for instance. 
No, no, I shall be true to my Minnie {rises and crosses 
to l) — quite true. I am quite determined that nothing 
shall shake my constancy to Minnie. {Enter Parker, 
D F r). What a devilish pretty girl ! 

Par. {aside) He's a mean young man, but he ought 
to be good for half-a-crown to-day. 

Ch. Come here, my dear ; a — How do I look ? 

Par. (r) Yery nice indeed, sir. 

Ch. (c) What, really ? 

Par. Really. 

Ch. What, tempting, eh ? 

Par. Yery tempting indeed. 



28 

Ch. Hah ! The married state is an enviable state, 
Parker. 

Pak. Is it, sir ? I hope it may he. It depends. 

Ch. What do you mean by " it depends ? " You're 
a member of the Church of England, I trust ? Then 
don't you know that in sajang " it depends " you are 
flying in the face of the marriage service ? Don't go 
and throw cold water on the married state, Parker. I 
know what you're going to say — its expensive. So it is, 
at first, very expensive, but with economy you soon re- 
trench that. By a beautiful provision of Nature, what's 
enough for one is enough for two. This phenomenon 
points directly to the married state as our natural state. 

Par. (r) Oh, for that matter, sir, a tigress would get 
on with you. You're so liberal, so gentle, so — there's 
only one word for it — dove-like. 

Ch. (c) What, you've remarked that, eh ? Ha ! ha ! 
Put dove-like as I am, Parker, in some respects, yet 
(getting his arm round her) in other res^iecis — (aside), 
deuced pretty girl ! — in other respects I am a man, 
Parker, of a strangely impetuous and headstrong 
nature. I don't beat about the bush ; I come quickly to 
the point. Shall I tell you a secret ? There's some- 
thing about you, I don't know what it is, that — in other 
words, you are the tree upon which — no, no, damn it, 
Cheviot — not to-day, not to-day. 

Pak. What a way you have with you, sir ! 

Ch. What, you've noticed that, have you ? Ha ! 
ha ! yes, I have a way, no doubt ; it's been remarked 
before. Whenever I see a pretty girl (and you are a 
very pretty girl) I can't help putting my arm like that 
(pitttirig it round her icaist). Now, pleasant as this sort 
of thing is, and you find it pleasant, don't you ? (Parl-er 
nods). Yes, you find it pleasant — pleasant as it is, it 
is decidedly wrong. 

Par. It is decidedly wrong in a married man. 

Ch. It is decidedly wrong in a married man. In a 
married man it's abominable, and I shall be a married 
man in half-an-hour. So, Parker, it will become 



29 

necessary to conquer this tendency, to strugs^le with it, 
and subdue it — in half-an-hour [getting more affectionate) . 
Not that there's any real harm in putting your arm 
round a girl's waist. Highly respectable people do it, 
when they waltz. 

Par. Yes, sir, but then a band's playing. 

Ch. True, and when a band's playing it don't matter, 
but when a band is not playing, why it's dangerous, you 
see. You begin with this, and you go on from one thing 
to another, getting more and more affectionate, until you 
reach tJiis stage {kissing her). Not that there's any real 
harm in kissing, either; for you see fatbers and mothers, 
who ought to set a good example, kissing their children 
every day. 

Par. Lor. sir, kissing's nothing ; everybody does 
that. 

Ch. That is your experience, is it ? It tallies with 
my own. Take it that I am your father, you are my 
daughter — or take it even that I am merely your 
husband, and you my wife, and it would be expected of 
me. [Kissing her.) 

Par. But I'm not your wife, sir. 

Ch. No, not yet, that's very true, and, of course, 
makes a difference. That's why I say I must subdue 
this tendency ; I must struggle with it ; I must conquer 
it — in half-an-hour. 

MiN. {icithout). Parker, where's Mr. Cheviot? 

Ch. There is your mistress, my dear — she's coming. 
Will you excuse me? [Releasing her.) Thank you. 
Good day, Parker. 

Par. [disgusted). Not so much as a shilling ; and 
that man's worth thousands ! 

[_H.rit Parker. Enter Minnie, l. 

Ch. My darling Minnie — my own, own To Come ! 

[Kissing her.) 

MiN. Oh, you mustn't crush me, Cheviot, you'll spoil 
my dress. How do you like it ? 

Ch. It's lovely. It's a beautiful material. 

MiN. (l) Yes ; dear papa's been going it, 



30 

Ch. Oh, but you're indebted to me for that beautiful 
dress. 

MiN. To yoQ ! Oh thank you — thank you ! 

Ch. Yes. I said to your papa, " Now do for once 
let the girl have a nice dress ; be liberal ; buy the very 
best that money will procure, you'll never miss it. So. 
thanks to me, he bought you a beauty. Seventeen and 
six a yard if it's a penny. (Minnie goes ujp stage c.) 
Dear me ! To think that in half-an-hour this magnifi- 
cent dress will be my property ! 

MiN. Yes. Dearlpapa said that as you had offered to 
give the breakfast at your house, he would give me the 
best dress that money could procure. 

Ch. Yes, I did offer to provide the breakfast in a 
reckless moment ; that's so like me. It was a rash 
offer, but I've made it, and I've stuck to it. Oh, then 
there's the cake. 

MiN, Oh, tell me all about the cake. (Ch. and 
Minnie sit en .^ofa l h.) 

Ch. It's a very pretty cake. Very little cake is 
eaten at a wedding breakfast, so I've ordered what's 
known in the trade as the three-quarter article. 

MiN. I see ; three-quarters cake, and the rest wood. 

Ch. No ; three-quarters wood, the rest cake. Be 
sure, my dear, you don't cut into the wood, for it has to 
be returned to the pastrycook to be filled up with cake 
for another occasion. I thought at first of ordering a 
seven-eighths article ; but one isn't married every day — 
it's only once a year— I mean it's only now and then. 
So I said, " Hang the expense ; let's do the thing well." 
And so it's a three-quarters. 

MiN. How good you are to me ! We shall be very 
happy, shall we not ? 

Ch. I— I hope so — yes. I hope so. Playfully happy, 
like two little kittens. 

MiN. That will be delightful. 

Ch. Economically happy, like two sensible people. 

MiN. Oh, we must be very economical. 

Ch. No vulgar display ; no pandering to a jaded 



31 

appetite. A refined and economical elegance ; that is 
what we must aim at. A simple mutton chop, nicely 
broiled, for you ; and two simple mutton chops, very 
nicely broiled, for me. 

MiN. And some flowery potatoes — 

Cir. A loaf of nice household bread — 

MiN. A stick of celery — 

Ch. And a bit of cheese, and you've a dinner fit for 
a monarch. 

MiN. Then how shall we spend our evenings ? 

Ch. "We'll have pleasant little fireside games. Are 
you fond of fireside games ? 

MiN. Oh, they're great fun. 

Ch. Then we'll play at tailoring. 

MiN. Tailoring? I don't think I know that game. 

Ch. It's a very good game. You shall be the clever 
little jobbing tailor, and I'll be the particular customer 
who brings his own materials to be made up. You shall 
take my measure, cut out the cloth (real cloth, you know), 
stitch it together and try it on ; and then I'll find fault 
like a real customer, and you shall alter it until it fits, 
and when it fits beautifully that counts one to you. 

MiN. Delightful ! 

Ch. Then there's another little fireside game which 
is great fun. "We each take a bit of paper and a pencil 
and try who can jot down the nicest dinner for nine- 
pence, and the next day we have it. 

MiN. Oh, Cheviot, what a paradise you hold open 
to me. [Rises.) 

Ch. Yes. How's papa? 

MiN. He's very well and very happy. He's going 
to increase his establishment on the strength of the 
£1,000 a year, and keep a man-servant, 

Ch. I know. I've been looking after some servants 
for him ; they'll be here in the course of the morning. 
A cook, a housemaid, and a footman. I found them 
through an advertisement. They're country people, and 
will come very cheap. 



32 

MiN. How kind and thoughtful you are ! Oh, 
Cheviot, I'm a very lucky girl ! [_Fcr/t Minnie, d l i e. 

Ch. Yes, I think so too, if 1 can only repress my 
tendency to think of that tall girl I met in Scotland ! 
Cheviot, my boy, you must make an effort ; you are going 
to he married, and the tall girl is nothing to you. ! 

Enter Pakkek, d in r e. 

Pah. Please, sir, here's a gentleman to see you. 

Ch. Oh, my solicitor, no doubt. Show him up. 

Par. And please, some persons have called to see 
you about an advertisement. 

Ch. Oh, Symperson's servants. To be sure. Show 
up the gentleman, and tell the others to wait. 

l^Exit Pakker, u e r. 

Enter Belvawney, S^e lools very miserable, d in f e. 

Ch. Belvawney ! This is unexpected. [Much con- 
fused.) 

Bel. (r) Yes, Cheviot. At last we meet. Don't, oh 
don't frown upon a heartbroken wretch. 

Ch. (c) Belvawney, I don't want to hurt ycur feel- 
ings, but I will not disguise from you that, not having 
seen you for three months, I was in hopes that I had 
got rid of you for ever. 

Bel. Oh, Cheviot, don't say that, I am so unhappy. 
And you have it in your power to make me comfortable. 
Do this, and I will bless you with my latest breath ! 

Ch. It is a tempting offer; I am not proof against 
it. We all have our price, and that is mine. Proceed. 

Bel. Miss Treherne — Belinda — whom I love so 
dearly, won't have anything to say to me. 

Ch. It does her credit. She's a very superior girl. 

Bel. It's all through you, Cheviot. She declares that 
the mutual declaration you made to protect her from 
McGilhcuddy amounts to a Scotch marriage. 

Ch. What ! ! ! 

Bi'.L. She declares she is your wife. She professes to 



^3 

love me as fondly as ever ; but a stern sense of duty to 
you forbids her to hold any communication with me. 

Ch. Uh, but this is absurd, you know ! 

Bel. Of course it is ; but what's to be done ? You 
left with Symperson immediately after making the decla- 
ration. As soon as she found you were gone she implored 
me to tell her your name and address. Of course I 
refused, and she quitted me telling me that she would 
devote her life to finding you out. 

Ch. (l) Bat this is simple madness. T can't have it ! 
This da} ; too, of all others ! If she'd claimed me last 
week, or even yesterday, I wouldn't have minded, for 
she's a devilish fine woman ; but if she were to turn up 
now — ! (Aloud.) Belvawney, my dear friend, tell me 
what to do — I'll do anything. 

Bel. (c) It seems that there's some doubt whether this 
cottage, which is just on the border, is in England or 
Scotland, If it is in England, she has no case ; if it is 
in Scotland, I'm afraid she has. I've written to the 
owner of the property to ascertain, and if, in the mean- 
time, she claims you, you must alsolutely decline to 
recognise this marriage tor a moment. 

Ch. Not for one moment ! 

Bel. It was a mere artifice to enable her to escape 
from McGillicuddy. 

Ch. Nothing more ! 

Bel. It's monstrous — perfectly monstrous — that that 
should constitute a marriage. It's disgraceful — it's 
abominable. Damme, Cheviot, it's immoral. 

Ch. So it is — it's immoral. That settles it in mi/ 
mind. It's immoral. 

Bel. You're quite sure you'll be resolute, Cheviot ? 

Ch. Resolute ? I should think so ! Why, hang it all, 
man, I'm going to be married in twenty minutes to 
Minnie Symperson ! 

Bel. What! 

Ch. (confused at having let this out). Didn't I tell 
you ? I believe you're right ; I did not tell you. It 
escaped me. Oh, yes, this is my wedding-day. 

D 






34 

Bel. Cheviot, you're joking — you don't mean this ! 
Why, I shall lose £1,000 a year by it, every penny I 
have in the world ! Oh, it can't he — it's nonsense ! 
Ch. "What do you mean by nonsense ? The married 
state is an honourable estate, I believe ? A man is not 
looked upon as utterly lost to all sense of decency 
because he's got married, I'm given to understand? 
People have been married before this, and have not been 
irretrievably tabooed in consequence, unless I'm grossly 
misinformed ? Then what the dickens do you mean by 
saying " nonsense " when I tell you that I'm going to 
be married ? 

Bel. (r) Cheviot, be careful how you take this step. 
Beware how you involve an innocent and helpless girl 
in social destruction. 

Ch. (l c) What do you mean, sir? 
Bel. You cannot marry ; you are a married man. 
Ch. Come, come, Belvawney, this is trifling. 
Bel. You are married to Miss Treherne. I was 
present, and can depose to the fact. 
Ch. Oh, you're not serious. 
Bel. Never more serious in my life. 
Ch. But, as you very properly said just now, it was 
a mere artifice — we didn't mean anything. It would be 
monstrous to regard that as a marriage. Damme, Bel- 
vawney, it would be immoral ! 

Bel. I may deplore the state of the law, but I 
cannot stand tamely by and see it deliberately violated 
before my eyes. 

Ch. {icildly). But, Belvawney, my dear friend, reflect ; 
everything is prepared for my marriage, at a great expense. 
I love Minnie deeply, devotedly. She is the actual tree 
upon which the fruit of my heart is growing. There's 
no mistake about it. She is my own To Come. I lovo 
her madly- -rapturously. {Going on his knees to Belvawney.) 
I have prepared a wedding breakfast at a great expense 
to do her honour. I have ordered four flys for the 
wedding party. I have taken two second-class Cook's 
tourists' tickets for Tlfracombe, Devon, Exetey^ Cornwall, 



35 

Westward Ho ! and Bidcford Bay. T)ie whole thing 

has cost me some twenty or twenty-five pounds, and all 

this will he wasted — utterly wasted — if you interfere. 

Oh, Belvawney, dear Belvawney, let the recollection of 

our long and dear friendship operate to prevent your 

shipwrecking my future life. (Sobbing hydcrically.) 

Bel. I have a duty to do. I must do it. {Going u.) 

Ch, But reflect, dear Belvawney, if I am married to 

Miss Treherne, you lose your income as much as if I 

married Minnie Symperson. (C. HilIj falls on sofa, l.) 

Bel. {at sofa). No doubt, if you could prove your 

marriage to Miss Treherne. But you can't {tvith 

melodramatic intensity) . 
Ch. Those eyes ! 

Bel. You don't know where she is {with fiendish 

exultation). 

Ch. Oh, those eyes ! 

Bel. The cottage has been pulled down, and the 

cottagers have emigrated to Patagonia 

Ch. Oh, those eyes ! 

Bel. I'm the only witness left. / can prove your 
marriage, if I like ; but you can't. Ha ! ha ! ha ! ha ! 
{u-ith Satanic laugh). It's a most painful and unfortunate 
situation for you ; and, believe mc, dear Cheviot, you 
have my deepest and most respectful sympathy. 

\_Kvit Belvawney d. in f. r. 
Ch. This is appalling ; simply appalling ! The cup 
of happiness dashed from my lips just as I was about to 
drink a life-long draught. The ladder kicked from 
under my feet just as I was about to pick the fruit of 
my heart from the tree upon which it has been growing 
so long. I'm a married man ! More than that, my 
honeymoon's past, and I never knew it ! Stop a 
moment, though. The bride can't be found ; the cottage 
is pulled down, and the cottagers have emigrated ; what 
proof is there that such a marriage ever took place ? 
There's only Belvawney, and Belvawney isn't a proof. 
Corroborated by the three cottagers, his word might be 
worth something j uncorroborated, it is worthless. I'll 

d2 



\ 
\ 



36 

risk it. He can do nothing ; the bride is nowhere ; the 

cottagers are in Patagonia, and 

lAt this moment Mrs. Macfarlane, Maggik, 
and Angus appear at the bade d. in f. r. 
T/iei/ stand bobbing and curtsying in 
rustic fashion to Cheviot [whom they don't 
recognise). He stares aghast at them for 
a moment, then staggers back to sofa. 
Ch. The man, the woman, and the girl, by all that's 
infernal ! 

Mrs. Mac. (r) Gude day, sir. AVe've just ca'd to see 
ye about the advertisement. {Producing paper.) 

Ch. I don't know you — I don't know you. Go 
away. (Cheviot buries his head in a neu'spaper, and 
pretends to read on sofa) . 

Mag. (l) Ah, sir, ye said that we were to ca' on ye 
this day at eleven o'clock, and sae we've coom a' the way 
fra Dumfries to see ye. 

Ch. I tell you I don't know you. Go away. I'm 
not at all well. I'm very ill, and its infectious. 

Ang. (c) We fear no illness, sir. This is Mistress 
Macfarlane, the gude auld mither, who'll cook the 
brose and boil the panitch, and sit wi ye, and nurse ye 
through your illness till the sad day ye dee ! ( Wiping 
his eye. Cheviot pohes a hole with his finger through 
newsjMper, and reconnoitres unobserved.) 

Mrs. Mac. And this is Meg, my aiu lass, Meg ! 
Ch. (aside). Attractive girl, very. I remember her 
perfectly. 

Mrs. Mac. And this is Angus Macalister, who's 
going to marry her, and who'll be mair than a son to 
me ! 

Ang. Oh, mither, mither, dinna say it, for ye bring 
the tear drop to my ee ; an' it's no canny for a strong 
man to be blithering and soughing like a poor weak 
lassie ! ( Wiping his eye.) 

[Angus and Mrs. Macfarlane sit. Maggie 
advances to hole in newspaper and peep^ 
fhrough. 



87 

Mag, Oh, mither, mither ! [Staggers hack info 
Angus's arms, r.) 

Mrs. Mac. What is it, Meg ? 

Ang. (r) Meg, my weel lo'ed Meg, my wee wifie that 
is to he, tell me what's wrang wi' 'ec ? 

Mag. (r c) Oh, mither, its him ; the nohle gentleman 
I plighted my troth to three weary months agone ! The 
gallant Englishman who gave Angus two golden pound 
to give me up ! 

Ang. It's the coward Sassenach who well nigh hroke 
our Meg's heart ! 

Mrs. Mac. (r c) My lass, my lass, dinna greet, maybe 
he'll marry ye yet. 

Ch. {de^peratehj). Here's another ! Does anybody else 
want to marry me? Don't be shy. You, ma'am {to 
Mrs. Mac), yoxCrc a fine woman — perhaps you would 
like to try your luck ? {Crosses to c.) 

Mag. (c) Ah, sir ! I dinna ken your name, but your 
bonnie face has lived in my twa e'en, sleeping and waking, 
three weary, weary months ! Oh, sir, ye should na' ha' 
deceived a trusting simple Lowland lassie, 'Twas na 
weel done — 'twas na weel done ! ( Weeping on his 
shoulder ; he puis his arm round her waist, c.) 

Oh. {softening, l c). My good girl, what do you wish 
me to do ? I remember you now perfectly. I did admire 
you very much — in fact, I do still ; j^ou're a very 
charming girl. Let us talk this over, calmly and quietly. 
(Mag. moves aicay). No, you needn't go ; you can stop 
there if you like. There, there, my dear ! don't fret. 
{Aside). She is a very charming girl. I almost wish I 
— I really begin to think I — no, no ! damn it, Cheviot ! 
not to day. 

Mag. Oh ! mither, he told me ho loved me ! 

Ch. So I did. The fact is, when I fell in love with 
you — don't go my pretty bird— I quite forgot that I w^as 
engaged. There, there ! I thought at the time that you 
were the tree upon which the fruit of my heart was 
growing ; but I was mistaken. Don't go ; you needn't 
go on that account. It was another tree — 



S8 

Mag. (c) Oh, mither, it was ai)ither tree! [Weeping 
on Cheviot's shoulder). 

Mrs. Mac. (r) Angus, it was anither tree! {Weeping 
on Angus's shoulder). 

Ang. Dinna, mither, dinna ; I canna bear it ! 
(Weeps). 

Ch. Yes, it was another tree — you can remain there 
for the present — in point of fact, it was growing on both 
trees. I don't know how it is, but it seems to grow on 
a great many trees — a perfect orchard — and you are one 
of tbem, my dear, Come, come, don't fret, you are one 
of them ! 

[Enter Minnie and Symperson.] 

MiN. Cheviot ! 

Sym. What is all this ? 

Ch. (rapidl// referring to piece of paper given to him 
by Mrs. Macfarlane as if going over a tcasherwouian's bill) . 
'* Twenty-four pairs socks, two shirts, thirty- seven col- 
lars, one sheet, forty-four nightshirts, twenty- two flannel 
waistcoats, one white tie." Ridiculous — quite ridicu- 
lous— I won't pay it. 

MiN. Cheviot, who is this person who we found hang- 
ing on your neck ? Say she is somebody — for instance, 
your sister or your aunt. Oh, Cheviot, say she is your 
aunt, I implore you I ( The three cottagers curtsey and 
how to Minnie.) 

Sym. Cheviot, say she is your auni, I command 
you. 

Ch. (c) Oh, I beg your pardon. I didn't see you. These 
ladies are — are ray washerwomen. Allow me to intro- 
duce them. They have come — they have come for their 
small account. (Maggie, ivho has been sobbing through 
this, throws herself hysterically on to Cheviot's bosom, c.) 
There's a discrepancy in the items~twenty-two flannel 
waistcoats are ridiculous, and, in short, some washerwomen 
are like this when they're contradicted— they can't help 



fi' 



39 

it — it's something in the suds : it undermines their con- 
stitution. 

Sym. {sternly). Cheviot, I should like to believe you, 
but it seems scarcely credible. 

Mag. {crosses to l c) Oh, sir, lie's no telling ye truly. 
I'm the puir Lowland lassie that he stole the hairt out 
of, three mouths ago, and promised to marry ; and I love 
him sae weel — sae weel, and now he's married to 
anither ! 

Ch. Nothing of the kind. I — 

Sym. You are mistaken, and so is your mith — mother. 
He is not yet married to anith — nother. 

Mag. Why, sir, it took place before my very ain 
eyes, before us a', to a beautiful lady, three months 
since. [^Retires, c. 

MiN. Cheviot, say tbat this is not true. Say that 
the beautiful lady was somebody— for instance, your 
aunt. Oh, say she was your aunt, I implore you ! 

Sym. {sternly). Cheviot, say she was your aunt, I 
command you ! 

Ch. Minnie, Symperson, don't believe them — it was 
no marriage. I don't even know the lady's name — I 
never saw her before — I've never seen her since. It's 
ridiculous— I couldn't have married her without knowing 
it — it's out of the question ! 

Sym. Cheviot, let's know exactly where we are. 1 
don't much care whom you marry, so that you marry 
someone— that's enough for me. But please be explicit, 
for this is business and mustn't be trifled with. Tell me 
all about it ? 

Ch. [in despair) I cannot ! {Sits in chair r.) 

Fnter Belvawney (d in f k). 

Bel. I can. 

Sym. Belvawney ! 

Bel. I was present when Cheviot and a certain lady 
declared themselves to be man and wife. This took 
place in a cottage on the Border — in the presence of 
these worthy people. 



40 

Sym. (l) That's enougli for me. It's a Scotch mar- 
riage ! Minnie, my child, we must find you someone 
else. (Minnie crosses to l.) Cheviot's married. Bel- 
vawney, I am sorry to say, I deprive you of your 
income. 

Bel. I beg your pardon, not yet. 

Sym. Why not ? 

Bel. In the first place, it's not certain whether the 
cottage was in England or in Scotland ; in the second 
place, the bride can't be found. 

Sym. But she shall be fouud. What is her name ? 

Bel. That I decline to state. 

Sym. But you shall be made to state. I insist upon 
knowing the young lady's name. 

Enter Miss Treherne, in a light and cheerful dress, 
D in F R. 

Bel. (amazed). Belinda Treherne ! 
Miss T. {rushing to Minnie, l c). Minnie, my own 
old friend I 

Ch. (rc.) Tisshe! 

Miss T. {turns and recognises Cheviot.) My 
husband ! 

Ch. My wife ! 
Miss T. throws herself at Cheviot's feet, hissing his 
hands rapturouslg. Belvawney staggers back, 
Minnie faints in her father's arms, (l) Maggie 
sobs on Angus's breast (r). Ficture. 

Act Drop 



41 



ACT III. 

Scene. Same as Act II. Belvaicney discovered with Miss 
Treherne and Minnie. He is singing to them. Miss 
Treherne is leaning romantically on r of piano. 
Minnie is seated, jiicturesquely, on a stool on his l. 

Bel. (sinr/s). " Says the old Obadiali to the young Obadiah, 
I am drier, Obadiah, I am drier." 

Chorus. "I am drier." 

Bel. "Says the young Obadiah to the old Obadiah, 

I'm on fire, Obadiah, I'm on fire." 

Chorus. " I'm on fire." 

MiN. Oh, thank you, Mr. Belvawney. How sweetly 
pretty that is. Where can I get it ? 

Miss T. (r) How marvellous is the power of melody 
over the soul that is fretted and harassed by anxiety 
and doubt. I can understand how valuable must have 
been the troubadours of old, in the troublous times of 
anarchy. Your song has soothed me, sir. 

Bel. (c) I am indeed glad to think that I have com- 
forted you a little, dear ladies. (Rises.) 

MiN. (rises) Dear Mr. Belvawney, I don't know what 
we should have done without you. "What with your 
sweet songs, your amusing riddles, and your clever con- 
juring tricks, the weary days of waiting have passed like 
a delightful dream. 

Miss T. (r) It is impossible to be dull in the society 
of one who can charm the soul with plaintive ballads 
one moment, and the nest roll a rabbit and a guinea-pig 
into one. 

Bel. (c) You make me indeed happy, dear ladies. 
But my joy will be of brief duration, for Cheviot may 
return at any moment with the news that that fatal cot- 
age wasin Scotland, and then — Oh, Belinda, what is to 
become of me ? 

Miss T. How many issues depend on that momentous 



42 

question ? Has Belvawney a thousand a year, or is he 
ruined ? Has your father that convenient addition to his 
income or has he not ? May Maggie marry Angus, or will 
her claim on Cheviot be satisfied ? Are you to be his 
cherished bride, or are you destined to a life of solitary 
maidenhood? Am I Cheviot's honoured wife, or am 
I but a broken-hearted and desolate spinster ? "Who 
can tell ! Who can tell ! {Crosses to Minnie, l.) 

Bel. (goes to ivindow in second dratcing-room, c). 
Here is a cab with luggage — it is Cheviot ! He has 
returned with the news ! {Comes doicn to r c.) Ladies 
— one word before I go. One of you will be claimed by 
Cheviot, that is very clear. To that one (whichever it may 
be) I do not address myself — but to the other (which- 
ever it may be), I say, I love you (whichever you are) 
with a fervour which I cannot describe in words. If 
you (whichever you are) will consent to cast your lot 
with mine, I will devote my life to proving that I love 
you and you only (whichever it may be) with a single- 
hearted and devoted passion, which precludes the possi- 
bility of my ever entertaining the slightest regard for 
any other woman in the whole world. T thought I would 
just mention it. Good morning ! \^Exit Belvawney, r. 

Miss T. How beautifully he expresses himself. He is 
indeed a rare and radiant being. 

MiN. {nervously). Oh, Belinda, the terrible moment 
is at hand. {Sits on sofa, l.) 

Miss T. Minnie, if dear Cheviot should prove to be 
my husband, swear to me that that will not prevent your 
coming to stop with us — with dear Cheviot and me — 
whenever you can. 

MiN. Indeed I will. And if it should turn out that 
dear Cheviot is at liberty to marry me, promise me that 
that will not prevent your looking on our house — on 
dear Cheviot's and mine — as your home. 

Miss T. I swear it. We will be like dear, dear sisters. 
Enter Cheviot, as from journey (d r r), with hag and rug. 

Miss T. Cheviot, tell me at once — are you my own, 
husband ? 



43 

MiN. Cheviot, spe.ik — is poor, little, simple Minnie 
to be your bride ? 

Ch, [sits on chair n.) Minnie, the hope of my heart, 
my pet fruit tree ! Belinda, my past, my present, and 
my to come ! I have sorry news, sorry news ! 

Miss T. (aside). Sorry news! Then I am not his 
wife. 

MiN. (aside). Sorry news ! Then she is his wife. 
Ch. My dear girls — my very dear girls, my journey 
has been fruitless — I have no information. 
Miss T. and Mm. No information ! 
Ch. None. The McQuibbigaskie has gone abroad ! 
(Both ladies fall icceping. Sits on sofa). 

Miss T. More weary waiting ; more weary waiting ! 
MiN. Oh my breaking heart ; oh, my poor bruised 
and breaking heart ! (Sits on stool r.) 

Ch. We must be patient, dear Belinda. Minnie, 
my own, we must be patient. After all, is the situation 
so vtry terrible ? Each of you has an even chance of 
becoming my wife, and in the meantime I. look upon my- 
self as engaged to both of you. I shall make no dis- 
tinction. I shall love you both, fondly, and you shall 
both love me. My affection shall be divided equally 
between you, and we will be as happy as three little 
birds. 

Miss T. (l) {wiping her eyes) You are very kind and 
thoughtful, dear Cheviot. 

MiN. (r) I believe, in my simple little way, that you 
are the very best man in the whole world ! 
Ch, (c) (deprecatinghj) No, No. 
MiN. Ah, but do let me think so : it makes me so 
happy to think so ! 

Ch. Does it ? Well, well, be it so. Perhaps I am 1 
And now tell me, how has the time passed since I left. 
Have my darlings been dull ? 

Miss T. We should have been dull indeed but for the 
airy Belvawuey. The sprightly creature has done his 
best to make the lagging hours fly. He is an entertain- 
ing rattlesnake — I should say, rattletrap. 



44 

Ch. (jealous) Oh, is he so ? Belvawney has been 
makicg the hours fly, has he? I'll make him fly, when 
I catch him ! (Miss Teeherne sits on sofa l c.) 

MiN. His conjuring tricks are wonderful ! 

Ch, Confound his conjuring tricks ! 

MiN. Have you seen him bring a live hen, two hair 
brushes, and a pound and a-half of fresh butter out of 
his pocket handkerchief ? 

Ch. No, T have not had that advantage ! 

Miss T. It is a thrilling sight. 

Ch. 80 I should be disposed to imagine ! Pretty 
goings on in my absence ! you seem to forget that you 
two girls are engaged to be married to me ! 

Miss T. [Rises.) Ah, Cheviot! do not judge us 
harshly. We love you with a reckless fervour that thrills 
us to the very marrow— don't we darling ? But the hours 
crept heavily without you, and when, to lighten the gloom 
in which we were plunged, the kindly creature swallowed 
a live rabbit and brought it out, smothered in onions, 
from his left boot, we could not choose but smile. The 
good soul has promised to teach me the trick. {Crosses 

to L.) 

Ch. Has he ! That's his confounded impudence. 
Now, once for all, I'll have nothing of this kind. One 
of you will be my wife, and until I know which, I will 
permit no Belvawneying of any kind whatever, or any- 
thing approaching thereto. When that is settled, the 
other may Belvawney until she is black in the face. 

Miss T. And how long have we to wait before we 
shall know which of us may begin Belvawneying ? 

Ch. I can't say. It may be some time. The Mo 
Quibbigaskie has gone to Central Africa. No post can 
reach him, and he will not return for six years. 

Miss T. Six years ! Oh, I cannot wait six years ! 
AVhy in six years I shall be eight-and-twenty ! 

MiN. Six years ! Why, in six years the Statute of 
Limitations will come in, and he can renounce us both. 

Miss T. True ; you are quite right. {To Cheviot) 
Cheviot, I have loved you madly, desperately, as 



45 

other woman never loved other man. This poor 
inexperienced child (embracing Minnie), who clings 
to me as the ivy clings to the oak, also loves you as 
woman never loved before. Even the poor cottage 
maiden, whose rustic heart you so recklessly enslaved, 
worships you with a devotion that has no parallel in the 
annals of the heart. In return for all this unalloyed 
affection, all we ask of you is that you will recommend 
us to a respectable solicitor. 

Ch. (r c) But, my dear children, reflect — I can't marry 
all three. I am most willing to consider myself engaged 
to all three, and that's as much as the law will allow. 
You see I do all I can. I'd marry all three of you, with 
pleasure, if I might ; but, as our laws stand at present, 
I'm sorry to say — I'm very sorry to say—it's out of the 
question. [^Uxit Cheviot, r d f. 

Miss. T. Poor fellow. Ho has my tcnderest sym- 
pathy ; but we have no alternative but to place ourselves 
under the protecting cegis of a jury of our countrymen ! 

Miter SvMPERsoN, l, tcith two letters. 

Symp. Minnie — Miss Symperson— the post has just 
brought me two letters ; one of them bears a Marseilles 
post-mark, and is, I doubt not, from the McQuibbigaskie ! 
He must have written just before starting for Central 
Africa ! 

MiN. (c) From the McQuibbigaskie ? Oh, read, read ! 

Miss. T. (r) Oh, sir ! how can you torture us by this 
delay ? Have you no curiosity ? 

Symp. (l) Well, my dear, very little on this point ; 
you see it don't much matter to me whom Cheviot marries. 
So that he marries some one, that's enough for me. But 
however, your anxiety is natural, and I will gratify it. 
{Opens letter and reads.) "Sir, —In reply to your letter, 
I have to inform you that Evan Cottage is certainly in 
England. The deeds relating to the property place this 
beyond all question." 

MiN. In England ! 

Miss T. {sinking into a chair, r c). This blow is 



46 

indeed a crusher ! Against this blow I cannot stand up ! 
(Faints). 

MiN. {o)i her knees, r of Belinda). My poor 
Belinda — my darling sister — love — oh forgive me — oh 
forgive me ! Don't look like that ! Speak to me, 
dearest— oh speak to me — speak to me. 

Miss T. [suddenly springing vp, r). Speak to you? Yes, 
I'll speak to you ! All is not yet lost ! TruCj he is not 
married to me, hut why should he not be ? I am as 
young as you ! I am as beautiful as you ! I have 
more money than you ! I will try — oh how hard I will 
try ! (Crosses to r, and then up to door r c.) 

MiN. Do, darling ; and I wish— oh how I wish you 
may get him ! 

Miss T. (at door, spiitef ally). Minnie, if you were not 
the dearest little friend I have in the world I could 
pinch you ! \_Exit Belinda, d f r. 

Symp. (l c) (icho has been reading thi other letter). 
Dear me — how terrible ! 

MiN. (k g) What is terrible, dear papa? 

Symp. Belvawney writes to tell me the Indestructible 
Bank stopped payment yesterday, and Cheviot's shares 
are waste paper. 

MiN. Well upon my word. There's an end of him 1 

Symp. An end of him. What do you mean? You 
are not going to throw him over ? 

MiN. Dear papa, I am sorry to disappoint you, but 
unless your tom-tit is very much mistaken, the In- 
destructible was not registered under the Joint-Stock 
Companies Act of Sixty-two, and in that case the share- 
holders are jointly and severally liable to the whole extent 
of their available capital. Poor little Minnie don't 
pretend to have a business head; but she's not qidte 
such a little donkey as that, dear papa. 

Symp. You decline to marry him ? Do I hear 
lightly? 

MiN. I don't know, papa, whether your hearing is 
as good it was, but from your excited manner, I should 
say you heard me perfectly. \Exit Minnie, d f k, 



47 

Symp. (c) This is a pretty business ! Done out of a 
thousand a year ; and by my own daughter ! What a 
terrible thing is this incessant craving after money ! 
Upon my word, some people sefm to think that they're 
sent into the world for no other purpose but to acquire 
wealth ; and, by Jove, they'll sacrifice their nearest and 
dearest relations to get it. It's most humiliating— most 
humiliating ! 

Enter Cheviot in loio spirits, d f r. 

Ch. {throicing himself into a chair. Sobs alohd.) Oh! 
Uncle Symperson, have you heard the news ? 

Symp. {angrily). Yes, I have heard the news; and a 
pretty man of business i/ou are to invest all your pro- 
perty in an unregistered company ! 

Ch. Uncle, don't i/ou turn against me ! Belinda is 
not my wife ! I'm a ruined man ; and ray darlings — 
my three darlings, whom I love with a fidelity, which, 
in these easy going days, is simply Quixotic — will have 
nothing to say to me. Minnie, your daughter, declines 
to accompany me to the alter. Belinda, I feel sure will 
revert to Belvawney, and Maggie is at this present moment 
hanging round that iScotch idiot's neck, although she 
knows that in doing so she simply tortures me. Symper- 
son, I never loved three girls as I loved those three — 
never ! never ! and now they'll all three slip through ray 
fingers — I'ra sure they will ! 

Sym. Pooh, pooh, sir. Do you think nobody loses 
but you ? Why I'm done out of a thousand a year 
by it. 

Ch. (moodily). For that matter, Symperson, I've a 
very vivid idea that you won't have to wait long for the 
money. 

Sym. What d'you mean ? Oh — of course— I under- 
stand. 

Ch. Eh? 

Sym. Mrs. Macfarlane ! I have thought of her 
myself. A very fine worae^n for her years ; a raajestic 
ruin, beautiful in decay. My dear boy, my very dear 
boy, I congratulate you. 



48 

Ch. Don't be absurd. I am not going to marrv anybody. 

Sym. Eh ? Why, then how— ? I don'^t think I 
quite follow you, 

Ch. (k) There is another contingency on which you 
come into the money. My death. 

Sym. To be sure ! I never thought of that ! And, 
as you say, a man can die but once. 

Ch. I beg your pardon. I didn't say anything of 
the kind — you said it ; but its true, for all that. 

Sym. I'm very sorry ; but of course, if you have 
made up your mind to it 

Ch. Why, when a man's lost everything, what has 
he to live for ? 

Sym. True, true. Nothing whatever. Still 

Ch. His money gone, his credit gone, the three girls 
he's engaged to gone. 

Sym. I cannot deny it. It is a hopeless situation. 
Hopeless— quite hopeless. 

Cn. His happiness wrecked, his hopes blighted , the 
three trees upon which the fruit of his heart was growing 
— all cut down. What is left but suicide? 

Sym. True— true ! You're quite right. Farewell. 
{Going.) 

Ch. Symperson, you seem to think I unnt to kill 
myself. I don't want to do anything of the kind. I'd 
much rather live — upon my soul I would — if I could 
think of any reason for living. Symperson, can't you 
think of something to check the heroic impulse which is 
at this moment urging me to a tremendous act of self- 
destruction ? 

Sym. Something ! Of course I can ! Say that you 
threw yourself into the Serpentine — which is handy. 
Well, it's an easy way of going out of the world, I'm told 
— rather pleasant than otherwise, I believe— quite an 
agreeable sensation, I'm given to understand. But you 
— you get wet through — and your — your clothes are 
absolutely ruined ! 

Ch. {mournfaUy) For that matter, I could take off 
my clothes before I went in. 



49 

Sym. True, so you could. I never thought of that. 
You could take them off before you go in — there's no 
reason why you should'nt, if you do it in the dark — and 
that objection falls to the ground. Cheviot, my lion- 
hearted boy, it's impossible to resist your arguments, 
they are absolutely convincing. {Shakes his hand.) 

\_Rrit L D F. 

Ch. Good fellov, Symperson — I like a man who's 
open to conviction ! But it's no use — all my attractions 
are gone — and I can not live unless I feel I'm fasci- 
nating. Still there's one chance left — Belinda ! I 
haven't tried her. Perhaps, after all, she loved me for 
myself alone ! It isn't likely — but it's barely possible. 
Enter Belvawxey (r d f) who has orcrhcard these words. 

Bel. Out of the question ; you are too late ! 
I represented to her that you are never likely 
to induce any one to marry you now that you are 
penniless. She felt that my income was secure, and 
she gave me her hand and her heart. 

Cn. Then all is lost ; my last chance is gone, and 
the irrevocable die is cast ! Be happy with her, Bel- 
vawney ; be happy with her ! 

Bel. (r) Happy ! You shall dine with us after our 
honeymoon and judge for yourself. 

Ch. {Sits on sofa j.) No, I shall not do that; long 
before you return I shall be beyond the reach of dinners. 

Bel. I understand — you are going abroad. Well, I 
don't think you could do better than try another 
country. 

Ch. {tragically). Belvawney, I'm going to try 
another world ! {Drawing a pistol from his pocket.) 

Bel. (alarmed). What do you mean ? 

Ch. In two minutes I die ! 

Bel. You're joking, of course ? 

Ch. Do I look like a man who jokes ? Is my frame 
of mind one in which a man indulges in trivialities ? 

Bel. {in great terror). But my dear Cheviot, reflect — 

Ch. Why should it concern you ? You will be 
happy with Belinda. You will not be well off, but 

£ 



50 

Symperson will, and I daresay he will give you a meal 
now and then. It will not be a nice meal, but still it 
will be a meal. 

Bel. (c) Cheviot, you mustn't do this ; pray reflect ; 
there are interests of magnitude depending on your 
existence. 

Ch. (c) My mind is made up. {Rising and cocking the 
pistol.) 

Bel. {loildly). But I shall be ruined ! 

Ch. (l) There is Belinda's fortune. 

Bel. She Avon't have me if I'm ruined ! Dear 
Cheviot, don't do it — its culpable — its wrong ! 

Ch. Life is valueless to me without Belinda. 
{Pointing the pistol to his head.) 

Bel. [desperately). You shall have Belinda; she is 
much — very much to me, but she is not everything. 
Your life is very dear to me ; and when I think of our 

old friendship ! Cheviot, you shall have anything 

you like if you'll only consent to live ! 

Ch. If I thought you were in earnest ; but no — no. 
{Putting pistol to head.) 

Bel. In earnest ? of course I'm in earnest ! "Why 
what's the use of Belinda to me if I'm ruined ? "Why 
she wouldn't look at me. 

Ch. Butperhapsif I'mrulnedjshe wouldn't lookatme. 

Bel. Cheviot, I'll confess all, if you'll only live. 
You — you are not ruined ! 

Ch. Not ruined ?. 

Bel. Not ruined. I — I invented the statement. 

Ch. {in great delight). You invented the statement? 
My dear Iriend ! My very dear friend ! I'm very 
much obliged to you ! Oh, thank you, thank you a 
thousand times ! Oh, Belvawney, you have made me 
very very happy ! {sobbing on his shoulder, then sud- 
dcnhj sprinijimj up.) But what the devil did you mean 
by circulating such a report about me ? How dare you 
do it, sir ? Answer me that, sir ? 

Bel. I did it to gain Belinda's love. I knew that 
the unselfish creature loved you for your wealth alone. 



51 

Ch. It was a liberty, sir ; it was a liberty. To put 
it mildly, it was a liberty. 

Bel, It was. You're quite right — that's tlie word 
fir it— it was a liberty. But I'll go and undeceive her 
at once. [Exit BELA^\w^'EY, r d f. 

Cii. "Well, as I've recovered my fortune, and with it 
my tree, I'm about the happiest fellow in the world. 
My money, my mistress, and my mistress's money, all 
my own. I believe I could go mad with joy ! 

Enter SniPERSON (l) in deep hIarJc ; he irallis pensively, tvith 
a white handkerchief to his mouth, crosses to R. Sits. 

Cn. What's the matter ? 

Sym. ('r) Hallo ! You're still alive ? {Disappointed.) 

Cn. (r) Alive? Yes; \y\\y [noticiwj his dress), {^awy- 
thing wrong ? 

Sym. No, no, my dear young friend, these clothes 
are symbolical ; they represent my state of mind. After 
your terrible threat, which I cannot doubt you iateud 
to put at once into execution — — 

Ch. My dear uncle, this is very touching ; this un- 
mans me. But, cheer up, dear old friend, I have good 
news for you. 

Sym. {alarmed). Good news ? What do you mean ? 

Ch. I am about to remove the weight of sorrow 
which hangs so heavily at }our heart. Resume your 
fancy check trousers — I have consented to live. 

Sym. Consented to live ? Why, sir, this is con- 
founded trifling. I don't understand this lino of conduct 
at all ; you threaten to commit suicide ; your friends 
are dreadfully shocked at first, but eventually their minds 
become reconciled to the prospect of losing you, they 
become resigned, even cheerful ; and when they have 
brought themselves to this Christian state of mind, you 
coolly inform them that you have changed your mind and 
mean to live. It's not business, sir — it's not business. 
[Crosses to l.) 

Ch. But, my dear uncle, I've nothing to commit 
suicide for ; I'm a rich man, and Belinda will, no doubt, 
accept me with joy and gratitude. 

E 2 



\ 



62 

Sym. Belinda will do nothing of the kind. She has 
just left the house with Belvawney, in a cab, and under 
the most affectionate circumstances. 

Ch. {alarmed). Left with Belvawney ? Where have 
they gone ? 

Sym. I don't know. Very likely to get married. 

Ch. {aghast). Married ? 

Sym. Yes, before the registrar. 

Ch. {excitedly.) I've been sold ! I see that now ! 
Belvawney has done me ! But I'm not the kind of man 
who stands such treatment quietly. Belvawney has found 
his match. Sympersou, they may get married, but, they 
shall not be happy ; I'll be revenged on ihem both, before 
they're twenty-four hours older. She marries him 
because she thinks his income is secure. I'll show her 
she's wrong ; I won't blow out my brains ; I'll do worse. 

Sym. What? 

Ch. I'll marry. 

Sym. Marry ? 

Ch. Anybody. I don't care who it is. 

Sym. Will Minnie do ? 

Ch. Minnie will do ; send her here. 

Sym. In one moment, my dear boy— in one moment ! 
\_Exit Sympeuson, hurriedly, r d r. 

Ch, Belinda alone in a cab with Belvawney ! It's 
maddening to think of it ! He's got his arm round her 
waist at this moment, if I know anything of human 
nature ! I can't stand it — I cannot and I will not stand it ! 
I'll write at once to the registrar and tell him she's 
married {sits at uiriting table l and prepares to write). Oh, 
why am T constant by disposition ? Why is it that when I 
love a girl I can think of no other girl but that girl, 
whereas, when a girl loves me she seems to entertain the 
same degree of affection for mankind at large ? I'll never 
be constant again ; henceforth I fascinate but to deceive ! 

Enter Minnie, k d r. Crosses to l. 
MiM. Mr. Cheviot Hill, papa tells me that you wish 
to speak to me, 



53 

Ch. {hurriedly — writing at table). I do. MissSymperson, 
I have no time to beat about tlie bush ; I must come to 
the point at onco. You rejected me a short time since — I 
will not pretend that I am pleased with you for rejecting 
me— on the contrary, I think it was in the worst taste. 
However, let bygones be bygones, Unforseen circum- 
stances render it necessary that I should marry at once, 
and y(m'il do. An early answer will be esteemed, as 
this is business. [Rcstoncs his writiivi.) 

MiN. Mr. Hill, dear papa assures me that the 
report about the loss of your money is incorrect. I hope 
this may be the case, but I cannot foi'get that the infor- 
mation comes from dear papa. Now dear papa is the 
best and dearest papa in the whole world, but he has a 
lively imagination, and when ho wants to accomplish his 
purpose, he does not hesitate to inveat — I am not quite 
sure of the word, but I think it is " bmncers." 

Ch. {writiag.) You are quite right, the word is 
bouncers. Bouncers or bangers — either will do. 

MiN. Then forgive my little silly fancies, Mr. Hill ; 
but, before I listen to your suggestion, I must have the 
very clearest proof that your position is, in every way, 
fully assured. {Retires up c.) 

Ch. {rises.) Mercenary little donkey ! I will not con- 
descend to proof. I renounce her altogether. {Strikes 
gong bell.) 

Enter Maggie with Axgus and Mrs. M.\cfae.l.\ne, r d. 
Angus has his arm roun.l her ivaist. 
Ch. {suddenly seeing her). Maggie, come hero. 
Angus, do take your arm from round that girl's waist, 
iitand back, and don't you listen. {Excitedly) Maggie, 
three months ago I told you that I loved you passion- 
ately ; to-day 1 tell you that I love you as passionately 
as ever ; I may add that I am still a rich m^*^ '^ 
oblige me with a postagii-stamn '^ 
stamp from her porJ-"^ 
do you say ? 
answer, as this is 



54 

Mag. (c) Oh, sir, ye're ower late. Oli, Maister 
Cheviot, if I'd only ken'd it before ! Oh, sir, I love 
ye right weel ; the bluid o' my hairt is nae sae dear 
to me as thou. (Sobbing on his s/ioukler.) Oh, Cheviot, 
my ain auld love ! my ain auld love ! 

Ang. (aside). Puir lassie, it just dra's the water from 
my e'e to hear her. Oh, mither, mither ! my hairt is 
just breaking. (Sobs on Mrs. Macfarlank's shoulder.) 

Ch. (c) But why is it too late ? You say that you 
love me. I offer to marry you. My station in life is at 
least equal to your own. What is lo prevent our union ? 

Mag. (wiping her eyes). Oh, sir, ye're unco guid to 
poor little Maggie, but ye're too late ; for she's placed 
the matter in her solicitor's hands, and he tells her that 
an action f )r breach will just bring dama;^es to the tune 
of a thousand (jound. There's a laddie waiting outside 
noo, to serve the bonnie writ on ye. (Turns ciffcction- 
atehj to Akgus. Retires up c.) 

Cheviot /c///s sobbing on to sofa. 

Ch. No one will marry me. There is a curse upon 
me — a curse upon me. No one will marry me — no, not 
one ! 

Mrs. Mac. (c) Dinna say that, sir. There's mony a 
woman — nae young, soft, foolish lassie, neither ; but 
grown women o' sober age, who'd be mair a mither than 
a wife to ye ; and that's what ye want, puir laddie, for 
ye'ro no equal to takin' care o' yersel'. (Crosses to l.) 

Ch. Mrs. Macfarlane, you are right. I am a man 
of quick impulse. I see, I feel, I speak. I — you are 

the tree upon which — that is to say — no, no, d n it, 

I can't ; I can't ! One must draw the line somewhere. 
(Turning from her with disgust.) 

Mrs. Mac, But ye need not draw the line at me ! 

'"^"'■■"".S tip ) 

- 'VD Belvawney, RDF. Thei/ 
- / Minnie. 

es ? You have 



I 

f, returned to mc, you have not gone off witli Belvawncy 

/ after all? Thank heaven, thank heaven! {Getting 

i^/ii/sterical). 

m Miss T. I thought that, as I came in, I heard you 

r sa)' something about a tree. 

Ch. You are right. As >ou entered I was remark- 
ing that I am a man of quick impulse. I see, I feel, I 
speak, I have two thousand a year, and I love you 
passionately. I lay my hand, my heart, and my income, 
all together, in one lot, at your feet ! 

Miss T. Cheviot, I love you with an irresistible 
fervour, that seems to parch my very existence. I love 
you as I rever loved man before, and as I can never 
hope to love man again. But, in the belief that you 
were ruined, I went with my own adored Belvawney 
before the registrar, and that registrar has just made 
us bne ! {Turns afectiunately to Belvawney.) 

a^-RT,. (vS (embraces ^i&iA^Dx). Bless him for it — bless 

One word. I have not yet seen 
the letter that blights my earthly hopes. For form's 
sake, I trust I may be permitted to cast my eye over 
that document ? As a matter ot business — that's all. 
^' ^ • ' '-: -n-^- ^> i«. You wil 



^M 




56 

Symp. {loohing over his shoulder at letter, reads). 
"Turn over." 

Cii. {deqxdringly). Why should I? What good 
would it do ? Oh ! I see, I beg your pardon ! {turns 
over the 2^<-'9g)' Halloa ! {Rises.) 

All. What? 

Ch. {reads). " P.S. — I may add that the border lint 
runs through the property. The cottage is undoubtedly 
in England, though the garden is in Scotland." 

Miss T. And we were married in the garden ! 

Ch. {amorously). Belinda, we were married in the 
garden ! (Belinda leaves Belvawney, and turns afec- 
tionatehj to Cheviot, wlio embraces her.) 

Bel. Belinda, stop a bit ! don't leave me like this ! 

Miss T, {crosses to Belvawney.) Belvawney, I love you 
with an intensity of devotion that I firmly believe will 
last while I live. But dear Cheviot is my husband now ; 
he has a claim upon me which it would be impossible — 
nay, criminal to resist. Farewell, Belvawney ; Minnie 
may yet be yours ! (Belvawney turns sobbing to Minnje, 
tvJin comforts Mm ; Miss T. crosses back to Cheviot.) 
Cheviot — my husband — my own old love — if the devotion 
^c a life-time can -^^one for the misery of the last few 
■^ it is yours, > ^^'ifely sentiment of pride, 



